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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
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Rockland
Maine
Nancy Boyd
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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More quotes by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Beauty is whatever gives joy.
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You are loved. If so, what else matters?
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I am all the time talking about you, and bragging, to one person or another. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had a tale in his heart he must unfold to all. I am always buttonholing somebody and saying, Someday you must meet my mother.
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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.
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April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
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A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.
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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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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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pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.
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I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.
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That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
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A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?
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Although we sometimes did without a few of life's necessities, we rarely lacked for its luxuries.
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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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This have I known always: Love is no more than the wide blossom which the wind assails, than the great tide that treads the shifting shore, strewing fresh wreckage gathered in the gales Pity me that the heart is slow to learn, that the swift mind beholds at every turn.
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The younger generation forms a country of its own. It has no geographical boundaries. I've talked with young Hungarians in Budapest, with young Italians in Rome, with young Frenchmen in Paris, and with young people all over. ... These young people are going to do things. They are going to change things.
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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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Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.
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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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A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.
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