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April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Edna St. Vincent Millay
Age: 58 †
Born: 1892
Born: February 22
Died: 1950
Died: October 19
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Rockland
Maine
Nancy Boyd
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Babbling
April
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One things there's no getting by, I've been a wicked girl, Says I... But, if I can't be sorry I might as well be glad !
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Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour falls from the sky a meteoric shower of facts They lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill is daily spun, But there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.
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If I could have two things in one: the peace of the grave, and the light of the sun.
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Love is not all it is not meat nor drink.
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Guess I'll weep awhile. Guess I won't, I mean.
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What terrible fear causes Man to address the Void as Thou?
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You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.
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Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!
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When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! I had you and I have you now no more.
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A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book nothing can help him.
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I love humanity but I hate people.
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Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
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Should at that moment the full moon Step forth upon the hill, And memories hard to bear at noon, By moonlight harder still, Form in the shadows of the trees, - Things that you could not spare And live, or so you thought, yet these All gone, and you still there, A man no longer what he was, Not yet the thing he planned.
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Although we sometimes did without a few of life's necessities, we rarely lacked for its luxuries.
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You are loved. If so, what else matters?
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it may be said of me by Harper & Brothers, that although I reject their proposals, I welcome their advances.
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A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.
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I am not a tentative person. Whatever I do, I give up my whole self to it.
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We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart. I had not thought That I could move,—and you be stiff and still! That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb! I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre.
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