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Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Edna St. Vincent Millay
Age: 58 †
Born: 1892
Born: February 22
Died: 1950
Died: October 19
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Writer
Rockland
Maine
Nancy Boyd
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Flower
Loved
Cannot
Bewilder
Wells
Mound
Well
Heap
Roses
Smell
Rose
More quotes by Edna St. Vincent Millay
But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.
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... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
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Youth, have no pity leave no farthing here For age to invest in compromise and fear.
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And all the loveliest things there be come simply, so it seems to me.
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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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Sorrow like a ceaseless rain Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain-- Dawn will find them still again This has neither wax nor wane, Neither stop nor start.
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Music my rampart, and my only one.
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Please don't think me negligent or rude. I am both, in effect, of course, but please don't think me either.
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Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand. Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
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The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.
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Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.
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What the customer demands is last year's model, cheaper. To find out what the customer needs you have to understand what the customer is doing as well as he understands it. Then you build what he needs and you educate him to the fact that he needs it.
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You are loved. If so, what else matters?
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When you publish something, it is very much as if you pulled your pants down in public. If what you have written is good, nobody can hurt you if what you have written is bad, nobody can help you.
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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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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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There is no shelter in you anywhere.
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Time can make soft that iron wood.
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Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before
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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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