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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
Ever
Things
Lied
Honesty
Grief
Tired
Pride
Honest
Truth

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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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Night falls fast. Today is in the past.
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But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.
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Time can make soft that iron wood.
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I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death I am not on his pay-roll.
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You are loved. If so, what else matters?
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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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Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more! Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore! And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me, I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly That I might eat again, and met thy sneers With deprecations, and thy blows with tears.
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Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne's Lace.
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To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough.
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Parrots, tortoises and redwoods live a longer life than men do Men a longer life than dogs do Dogs a longer life than love does.
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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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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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I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.
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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.
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O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
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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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I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.
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