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That is my being, the madness of an unaccustomed mood.

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
Mood
Unaccustomed
Madness

More quotes by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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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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Pour away despair and rinse the cup. Eat happiness like bread.
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A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.
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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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O troubled forms, O early love unfortunate and hard, Time has estranged you into a jewel cold and pure
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Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies.
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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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What should I be but just what I am?
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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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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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I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
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That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
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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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Life has no friend.
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... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
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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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She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
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A grave is such a quiet place.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Music my rampart, and my only one.
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Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo and the happier he
Edna St. Vincent Millay