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Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.

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
Moment
Moments
Done
Things
Alls
Strange

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That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
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it may be said of me by Harper & Brothers, that although I reject their proposals, I welcome their advances.
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Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more! Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore! And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me, I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly That I might eat again, and met thy sneers With deprecations, and thy blows with tears.
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... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
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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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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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If I could have two things in one: the peace of the grave, and the light of the sun.
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There is no shelter in you anywhere.
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Youth, have no pity leave no farthing here For age to invest in compromise and fear.
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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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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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If I love you Wednesday, What is that to you? I do not love you Thursday - so much is true.
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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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I screamed, and--lo!--Infinity Came down and settled over me
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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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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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Not Truth, but Faith it is that keeps the world alive.
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That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.
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What should I be but just what I am?
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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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