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After the feet of beauty fly my own.

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
Feet
Beauty

More quotes by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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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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That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
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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 love humanity but I hate people.
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But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.
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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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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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Not Truth, but Faith it is that keeps the world alive.
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Life has no friend.
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All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back on loveliness and sighed.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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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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Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
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No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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It's little I know what's in my heart,What's in my mind it's little I know,But there's that in me must up and start,And it's little I care where my feet go.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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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
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.
Edna St. Vincent Millay