Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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I will be the gladdest thing
My heart is what it was before,
Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;
Hard seeds of hate I planted
Mine is a body that should die at sea!
The trees along this city street,
Why do you follow me?--
Boys and girls that held her dear,
Doubt no more that Oberon--
I know what my heart is like
No matter what I say,
OH, come again to Astolat!
Let them bury your big eyes
There will be rose and rhododendron
Heap not on this mound
Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
My candle burns at both ends;
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Was it for this I uttered prayers,
I said,--for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,--
People that build their houses inland,
The room is full of you!--As I came in
Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
Am I kin to Sorrow,
Listen, children:
These wet rocks where the tide has been,
As I went walking up and down to take the evening air,
Butterflies are white and blue
Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife,
Aye, but she?
Death devours all lovely things;
If it were only still!--
Before she has her floor swept
Be to her, Persephone,
We were very tired, we were very merry--
All I could see from where I stood
For the sake of some things
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Oh, Prue she has a patient man,
April this year, not otherwise
The first rose on my rose-tree
Let the little birds sing;
All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,--no,
Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
I think I should have loved you presently,
Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow!
Not in this chamber only at my birth--
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
This door you might not open, and you did;
We talk of taxes, and I call you friend;
Into the golden vessel of great song
Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
Only until this cigarette is ended,
Let you not say of me when I am old,
Once more into my arid days like dew,
No rose that in a garden ever grew,
When I too long have looked upon your face,
And you as well must die, beloved dust,
Oh, my beloved, have you thought of this:
As to some lovely temple, tenantless
Cherish you then the hope I shall forget
Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
I'll keep a little tavern
Ho, Giant! This is I!
God had called us, and we came;
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
Love, if I weep it will not matter,
I knew her for a little ghost
OH, here the air is sweet and still,
Oh, I am grown so free from care
I had a little Sorrow,
And what are you that, wanting you
Down, you mongrel, Death!
All right,
Death, I say, my heart is bowed
What should I be but a prophet and a liar,
"Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more!
There was a road ran past our house
And if I loved you Wednesday,
Minstrel, what have you to do
Still must the poet as of old,
If he should lie a-dying
How shall I know, unless I go
The railroad track is miles away,
White with daisies and red with sorrel
I cannot but remember
I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
She is neither pink nor pale,
"Thin Rain, whom are you haunting,