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I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death I am not on his pay-roll.

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
Roll
Pay
Shall
Dies
Death

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... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
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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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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?
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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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Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?
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Beauty never slumbers All is in her name But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.
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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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Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it.
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Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.
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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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Lord I do fear / Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.
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O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
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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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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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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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Should at that moment the full moon Step forth upon the hill, And memories hard to bear at noon, By moonlight harder still, Form in the shadows of the trees, - Things that you could not spare And live, or so you thought, yet these All gone, and you still there, A man no longer what he was, Not yet the thing he planned.
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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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We were so wholly one I had not thought That we could die apart. I had not thought That I could move,—and you be stiff and still! That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb! I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof In some firm fabric, woven in and out Your golden filaments in fair design Across my duller fibre.
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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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To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough.
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