Quote

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?

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
Made
Progress
Believe
Told
Good
Word
Always
Idea
Dirtiest
Language
Necessarily
Ideas
Forward
Ever
Step
Take
Steps

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After the feet of beauty fly my own.
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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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All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back on loveliness and sighed.
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Night falls fast. Today is in the past.
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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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There is no shelter in you anywhere.
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She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
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My candle burns at both ends it will not last the night but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light!
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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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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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I am not a tentative person. Whatever I do, I give up my whole self to it.
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O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
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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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Time can make soft that iron wood.
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When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! I had you and I have you now no more.
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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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Life must go on I forget just why.
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Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
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The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.
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Cruel of heart, lay down my song. Your reading eyes have done me wrong. Not for you was the pen bitten, And the mind wrung, and the song written.
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