Edna St. Vincent Millay, Collected Poems

"Am I kin to Sorrow,That so oft Falls the knocker of my door—Neither loud nor soft,But as long accustomed—Under Sorrow’s hand?"

"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."

"Lost in Hell,-Persephone,Take her head upon your knee;Say to her, "My dear, my dear,It is not so dreadful here."

"I avoid the looming visitor,Flee him adroitly around corners,Hating him, wishing him well;Lest if he confront me I be forced to say what is in no wise true:That he is welcome; that I am unoccupied;And forced to sit while the potted roses wilt in the crate or the sonnet cools Bending a respectful nose above such dried philosophies As have hung in wreaths from the rafters of my house since I was a child. Some trace of kindliness in this, no doubt,There may be. But not enough to keep a bird alive. There is a flaw amounting to a fissure In such behaviour."

"And so beneath the weight lay IAnd suffered death, but could not die."

"I turn away reluctant from your light,And stand irresolute, a mind undone,A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight From having looked too long upon the sun. Then is my daily life a narrow room In which a little while, uncertainly,Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,Among familiar things grown strange to me Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,Till I become accustomed to the dark."

"I know not how such things can be;I only know there came to me A fragrance such as never clings To aught save happy living things;A sound as of some joyous elf Singing sweet songs to please himself,And, through and over everything,A sense of glad awakening. The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,Whispering to me I could hear;I felt the rain’s cool finger-tips Brushed tenderly across my lips,Laid gently on my sealed sight,And all at once the heavy night Fell from my eyes and I could see!—A drenched and dripping apple-tree,A last long line of silver rain,A sky grown clear and blue again. And as I looked a quickening gust Of wind blew up to me and thrust Into my face a miracle Of orchard-breath, and with the smell,—I know not how such things can be!—I breathed my soul back into me."

"Lie down beside these waters That bubble from the spring;Hear in the desert silence The desert sparrow sing;Draw from the shapeless moment Such pattern as you can;And cleave henceforth to Beauty;Expect no more from man. Man, with his ready answer,His sad and hearty word,For every cause in limbo,For every debt deferred,For every pledge forgotten,His eloquent and grim Deep empty gaze upon you,—Expect no more from him."

"When this book is mould,And a book of many Waiting to be sold For a casual penny,In a little open case,In a street unclean and cluttered,Where a heavy mud is spattered From the passing drays,Stranger, pause and look;From the dust of ages Lift this little book,Turn the tattered pages,Read me, do not let me die!Search the fading letters, finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!"

"And all at once the heavy night Fell from my eyes and I could see, --A drenched and dripping apple-tree,A last long line of silver rain,A sky grown clear and blue again. And as I looked a quickening gust Of wind blew up to me and thrust Into my face a miracle Of orchard-breath, and with the smell, --I know not how such things can be! --I breathed my soul back into me. Ah! Up then from the ground sprang IAnd hailed the earth with such a cry As is not heard save from a man Who has been dead, and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound;Like one gone mad I hugged the ground;I raised my quivering arms on high;I laughed and laughed into the sky"

"Stranger, pause and look;From the dust of ages Lift this little book,Turn the tattered pages,Read me, do not let me die!Search the fading letters finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!"

"After all, my erstwhile dear,My no longer cherished,Need we say it was not love,Just because it perished?"

"I know I am but summer to your heart,And not the full four seasons of the year;And you must welcome from another part Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear. No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing;And I have loved you all too long and well To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring. Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes,I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums, That you may hail anew the bird and rose When I come back to you, as summer comes. Else will you seek, at some not distant time, Even your summer in another clime."