Quotes from Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Unexplorer" There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man's door. (That's why I have not traveled more.)

If you walk east at daybreak from the town To the cliff's foot, by climbing steadily You cling at noon whence there is no way down But to go toppling backward to the sea. And not for birds nor birds' eggs, so they say, But for a flower that in these fissures grows, Forms have been seen to move throughout the day Skyward; but what its name is no one knows. 'Tis said you find beside them on the sand This flower, relinquished by the broken hand.

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

But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.

Give back my book and take my kiss instead.

This I do, being mad: Gather baubles about me, Sit in a circle of toys, and all the time Death beating the door in.

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.

For men that are afraid to die Must warm their hands before a lie; The fire that's built of What is Known Will chill the marrow in the bone.

What should I be but a prophet and a liar, Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar? Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water, What should I be but the fiend's god-daugther?

It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over.

Afternoon on a Hill" I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise. And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down!

The mind, at length bereft Of thinking and its pain, Will soon disperse again, And nothing will remain: No, not a thing be left. Only the ardent eye, Only the listening ear Can say, "The thrush was here!" Can say, "His song was clear!" Can live, before it die.

Tavern" I'll keep a little tavern Below the high hill's crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people May sit them down and rest. There shall be plates a-plenty, And mugs to melt the chill Of all the grey-eyed people Who happen up the hill. There sound will sleep the traveller, And dream his journey's end, But I will rouse at midnight The falling fire to tend. Aye, 'tis a curious fancy-- But all the good I know Was taught me out of two grey eyes A long time ago.

What can I give for Your knowledge Of when to expand And when to contract— This instructed, more academic college Of when to act?

Mine is a body that should die at sea! And have for a grave, instead of a grave Six feet deep and the length of me, All the water that is under the wave! And terrible fishes to seize my flesh, Such as a living man might fear, And eat me while I am firm and fresh, - Not wait till I've been dead for a year!

Over these things I could not see; These were the things that bounded me; And I could touch them with my hand, Almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small My breath came short, and scarce at all.

For the body at best    Is a bundle of aches, Longing for rest;    It cries when it wakes

And as it went my tortured soul (...) That all about me swirled the dust. Deep in the earth I rested now, Cool is its hands upon the brow And soft its breast beneath the head Of one who is so gladly dead.

I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slating silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees.

All night there isn't a train goes by, Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming, But I see its cinders red on the sky, And hear its engine steaming.

We move in darkness, solemn and extreme.

Few Come This Way Few come this way; not that the darkness Deters them, but they come Reluctant here who fear to find, Thickening the darkness, what they left behind Sucking its cheeks before the fire at home, The palsied Indecision from whose dancing head Precipitately they fled, only to come again Upon him here, Clutching at the wrist of Venture with a cold Hand, aiming to fall in with him, companion Of the new as of the old.

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!

The Fugitive" Thanks be to God the world is wide, And I am going far from home, For I forgot in Camelot The man I loved in Rome, And I forgot in Kensington The man I loved in Kew; And there must be a place for me To think no more of you.