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A grave is such a quiet place.

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
Quiet
Place
Grave
Graves

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Music my rampart, and my only one.
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Life has no friend.
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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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Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
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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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Let us not forget such words, and all they mean, as hatred, bitterness, and rancor greed, intolerance, bigotry let us renew our faith and pledge to man, his right to be himself and free.
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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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I am not at all in favor of hard work for its own sake many people who work very hard indeed produce terrible things, and should most certainly not be encouraged.
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To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough.
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I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
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Beauty is whatever gives joy.
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Not Truth, but Faith it is that keeps the world alive.
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There is no shelter in you anywhere.
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Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.
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Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
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Lord I do fear / Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.
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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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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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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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But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.
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