Quotes from Edna St. Vincent Millay

Tis not love's going hurts my days, But that it went in little ways

Infinity Came down and settled over me; Forced back my scream into my chest, Bent back my arm upon my breast

The sun that warmed our stooping backs and withered the weed uprooted- We shall not feel it again. We shall die in darkness, and be buried in the rain.

The Prisoner All right, Go ahead! What's in a name? I guess I'll be locked into As much as I'm locked out of!

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.

A infância não vai do nascimento até certa idade,e a certa altura a criança está crescida,deixando de lado as coisas de criança.A infância é o reino onde ninguém morre.

I bleed, but know not wherefore, know not where.

And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you All through my life?—sharing my fire, my bed, Sharing—oh, worst of all things!—the same head?— And, when I feed myself, feeding you, too?

Not speak however silently, But my hushed voice will answer Thee

koodaki ghalamroe padshahii ast ke hich kas dar an nakhahad mord

The poem is the thing. Is it interesting? – Is it beautiful? –Is it sublime? Then it was written by nobody. It exists by itself.

You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe, As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby, You will find such flame at the wave's weedy ebb As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother's web, But there comes to birth no common spawn From the love of a priest for a leprechaun, And you never have seen and you never will see Such things as the things that swaddled me!

A person who publishes a book wilfully appears before the populace with his pants down. –

Siege This I do, being mad: Gather baubles about me, Sit in a circle of toys, and all the time Death beating the door in. White jade and an orange pitcher, Hindu idol, Chinese god,— Maybe next year, when I'm richer— Carved beads and a lotus pod... And all this time Death beating the door in.

Strong sun, that bleach The curtains of my room, can you not render Colourless this dress I wear?— This violent plaid Of purple angers and red shames; the yellow stripe Of thin but valid treacheries; the flashy green of kind deeds done Through indolence, high judgments given in haste; The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste?

I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And oaths were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far,— Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking.

In this unlighted cave, one step forward That step can be the down-step into the Abyss. But we, we have no sense of direction; impetus Is all we have; we do not proceed, we only Roll down the mountain, Like disbalanced boulders, crushing before us many Delicate springing things, whose plan it was to grow.

This my personal death?— That my lungs be failing To inhale the breath Others are exhaling?

How shall I know, unless I go To Cairo and Cathay, Whether or not this blessed spot Is blest in every way? Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose; How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose? The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel!

The soul can split the sky in two, And let the face of God shine through. But East and West will pinch the heart That can not keep them pushed apart; And he whose soul is flat—the sky Will cave in on him by and by.

Death devours all lovely things: Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness - presently Every bed is narrow. Unremembered as old rain Dries the sheer libation; And the little petulant hand Is an annotation. After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Just because it perished? — Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Passer Mortuus Est," Second April . (New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1921)

Along my body, waking while I sleep, Sharp to the kiss, cold to the hand as snow, The scar of this encounter like a sword

PIERROT: Of course not. There never was. "Moon's" just a word to swear by. "Mutton!"—now there's a thing you can lay the hands on, And set the tooth in! Listen, Columbine: I always lied about the moon and you. Food is my only lust. COLUMBINE: Well, eat it, then, For Heaven's sake, and stop your silly noise! I haven't heard the clock tick for an hour.

but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh Upon the glass and listen for reply, And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain For unremembered lads that not again Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.