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I am not a tentative person. Whatever I do, I give up my whole self to it.

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
Self
Whole
Giving
Tentative
Passion
Whatever
Give
Persons
Person

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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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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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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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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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Pour away despair and rinse the cup. Eat happiness like bread.
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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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Strange how few, After alls said and done, the things that are Of moment.
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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
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What should I be but just what I am?
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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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They say when you are missing someone that they are probably feeling the same, but I don't think it's possible for you to miss me as much as I'm missing you right now
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Lord I do fear / Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.
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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.
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Martyred many times must be Who would keep his country free.
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I have loved badly, loved the great Too soon, withdrawn my words too late And eaten in an echoing hall Alone and from a chipped plate The words that I withdrew too late.
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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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A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book nothing can help him.
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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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Time can make soft that iron wood.
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