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Cut if you will with sleep's dull knife, the years from off your life, my friend! the years that death takes off my life, he'll take from off the other end!

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
Takes
Sleep
Death
Sleepiness
Ends
Knife
Take
Knives
Years
Dull
Life
Cutting
Friend

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Night falls fast. Today is in the past.
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Oh, children, growing up to be Adventurers into sophistry, Forbear, forbear to be of those That read the rood to learn the rose.
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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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Youth, have no pity leave no farthing here For age to invest in compromise and fear.
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I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.
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Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
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Let us not forget such words, and all they mean, as hatred, bitterness, and rancor greed, intolerance, bigotry let us renew our faith and pledge to man, his right to be himself and free.
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Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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Beauty never slumbers All is in her name But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.
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I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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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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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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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.
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This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.
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Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
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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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I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
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O troubled forms, O early love unfortunate and hard, Time has estranged you into a jewel cold and pure
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There is no shelter in you anywhere.
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