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If ever I said in grief or pride, I'd tired of honest things, I lied.

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
Honesty
Grief
Tired
Pride
Honest
Truth
Ever
Things
Lied

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Not Truth, but Faith it is that keeps the world alive.
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Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.
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The younger generation forms a country of its own. It has no geographical boundaries. I've talked with young Hungarians in Budapest, with young Italians in Rome, with young Frenchmen in Paris, and with young people all over. ... These young people are going to do things. They are going to change things.
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She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
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Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!
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Not for the flag Of any land because myself was born there Will I give up my life. But I will love that land where man is free, And that will I defend.
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It's not true that life is one damn thing after another it is one damn thing over and over.
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What terrible fear causes Man to address the Void as Thou?
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Stranger, pause and look From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!
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What should I be but just what I am?
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I am all the time talking about you, and bragging, to one person or another. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had a tale in his heart he must unfold to all. I am always buttonholing somebody and saying, Someday you must meet my mother.
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... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
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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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It's little I know what's in my heart,What's in my mind it's little I know,But there's that in me must up and start,And it's little I care where my feet go.
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The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.
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Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere.
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A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?
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But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.
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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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I will come back to you, I swear I will And you will know me still. I shall be only a little taller Than when I went.
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