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Beauty never slumbers All is in her name But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.
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
Never
Dust
Rose
Name
Came
Beauty
Names
Slumbers
Beautiful
Slumber
Remember
Remembers
More quotes by Edna St. Vincent Millay
We think-although of course, now, we very seldom Clearly think- That the other side of War is Peace.
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Lord I do fear / Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.
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Life must go on I forget just why.
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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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Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
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Pour away despair and rinse the cup. Eat happiness like bread.
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A grave is such a quiet place.
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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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A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.
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You are loved. If so, what else matters?
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Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that but some place set apart for it.
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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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April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
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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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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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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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Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it.
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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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Beauty is whatever gives joy.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
