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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.

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
Growing
Education
Read
Forbear
Learn
Adventurers
Children
Sophistry
Adventurer
Rose

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If I love you Wednesday, What is that to you? I do not love you Thursday - so much is true.
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We think-although of course, now, we very seldom Clearly think- That the other side of War is Peace.
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There is no shelter in you anywhere.
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Please don't think me negligent or rude. I am both, in effect, of course, but please don't think me either.
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Progress-progress is the dirtiest word in the language-who ever told us- And made us believe it-that to take a step forward was necessarily, was always A good idea?
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Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
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What the customer demands is last year's model, cheaper. To find out what the customer needs you have to understand what the customer is doing as well as he understands it. Then you build what he needs and you educate him to the fact that he needs it.
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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
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Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.
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Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before
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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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Evil alone has oil for every wheel.
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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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Cut if you will with sleep's dull knife, the years from off your life, my friend! the years that death takes off my life, he'll take from off the other end!
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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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Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
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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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You are loved. If so, what else matters?
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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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