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I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.

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
Sorrow
Sin
Born
Littles
Little

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Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it.
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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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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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A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.
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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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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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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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What should I be but just what I am?
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A grave is such a quiet place.
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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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Lord I do fear / Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.
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Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.
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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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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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April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
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Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
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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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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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I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
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