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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.

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
Dog
Longer
Funny
Doe
Tortoises
Live
Redwoods
Men
Parrots
Love
Dogs
Life
Romance

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Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!
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When you are corn and roses and at rest I shall endure, a dense and sanguine ghost To haunt the scene where I was happiest To bend above the thing I loved the most
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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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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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There is no shelter in you anywhere.
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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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Time can make soft that iron wood.
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pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.
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Pour away despair and rinse the cup. Eat happiness like bread.
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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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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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O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
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You are loved. If so, what else matters?
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Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.
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Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note In me a beauty that was never mine, How first you knew me in a book I wrote, How first you loved me for a written line.
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I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.
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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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... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
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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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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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