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Best Famous Edna St Vincent Millay Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Edna St Vincent Millay poems. This is a select list of the best famous Edna St Vincent Millay poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Edna St Vincent Millay poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Edna St Vincent Millay poems.

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Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |


 I should like to rise and go 
Where the golden apples grow;-- 
Where below another sky 
Parrot islands anchored lie, 
And, watched by cockatoos and goats, 
Lonely Crusoes building boats;-- 
Where in sunshine reaching out 
Eastern cities, miles about, 
Are with mosque and minaret 
Among sandy gardens set, 
And the rich goods from near and far 
Hang for sale in the bazaar;-- 
Where the Great Wall round China goes, 
And on one side the desert blows, 
And with the voice and bell and drum, 
Cities on the other hum;-- 
Where are forests hot as fire, 
Wide as England, tall as a spire, 
Full of apes and cocoa-nuts 
And the negro hunters' huts;-- 
Where the knotty crocodile 
Lies and blinks in the Nile, 
And the red flamingo flies 
Hunting fish before his eyes;-- 
Where in jungles near and far, 
Man-devouring tigers are, 
Lying close and giving ear 
Lest the hunt be drawing near, 
Or a comer-by be seen 
Swinging in the palanquin;-- 
Where among the desert sands 
Some deserted city stands, 
All its children, sweep and prince, 
Grown to manhood ages since, 
Not a foot in street or house, 
Not a stir of child or mouse, 
And when kindly falls the night, 
In all the town no spark of light.
There I'll come when I'm a man With a camel caravan; Light a fire in the gloom Of some dusty dining-room; See the pictures on the walls, Heroes fights and festivals; And in a corner find the toys Of the old Egyptian boys.

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |


 If it were only still!—
With far away the shrill
Crying of a cock;
Or the shaken bell
From a cow's throat
Moving through the bushes;
Or the soft shock
Of wizened apples falling
From an old tree
In a forgotten orchard
Upon the hilly rock!

Oh, grey hill,
Where the grazing herd
Licks the purple blossom,
Crops the spiky weed!
Oh, stony pasture,
Where the tall mullein
Stands up so sturdy
On its little seed!

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

Justice Denied In Massachusetts

 Let us abandon then our gardens and go home
And sit in the sitting-room
Shall the larkspur blossom or the corn grow under this cloud?
Sour to the fruitful seed
Is the cold earth under this cloud,
Fostering quack and weed, we have marched upon but cannot
We have bent the blades of our hoes against the stalks of them.
Let us go home, and sit in the sitting room.
Not in our day Shall the cloud go over and the sun rise as before, Beneficent upon us Out of the glittering bay, And the warm winds be blown inward from the sea Moving the blades of corn With a peaceful sound.
Forlorn, forlorn, Stands the blue hay-rack by the empty mow.
And the petals drop to the ground, Leaving the tree unfruited.
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.
What from the splendid dead We have inherited — Furrows sweet to the grain, and the weed subdued — See now the slug and the mildew plunder.
Evil does overwhelm The larkspur and the corn; We have seen them go under.
Let us sit here, sit still, Here in the sitting-room until we die; At the step of Death on the walk, rise and go; Leaving to our children's children the beautiful doorway, And this elm, And a blighted earth to till With a broken hoe.

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Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |


 No matter what I say,
All that I really love
Is the rain that flattens on the bay,
And the eel-grass in the cove;
The jingle-shells that lie and bleach
At the tide-line, and the trace
Of higher tides along the beach:
Nothing in this place.

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

Sonnet 03: Mindful Of You The Sodden Earth In Spring

 Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
 And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
 And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
The summer through, and each departing wing,
 And all the nests that the bared branches show,
 And all winds that in any weather blow,
And all the storms that the four seasons bring.
You go no more on your exultant feet Up paths that only mist and morning knew, Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,— But you were something more than young and sweet And fair,—and the long year remembers you.

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

First Fig

 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.

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

I Dreamed I Moved Among The Elysian Fields

 I dreamed I moved among the Elysian fields,
In converse with sweet women long since dead;
And out of blossoms which that meadow yields
I wove a garland for your living head.
Danai, that was the vessel for a day Of golden Jove, I saw, and at her side, Whom Jove the Bull desired and bore away, Europa stood, and the Swan's featherless bride.
All these were mortal women, yet all these Above the ground had had a god for guest; Freely I walked beside them and at ease, Addressing them, by them again addressed, And marvelled nothing, for remembering you, Wherefore I was among them well I knew.

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

She is Overheard Singing

 OH, Prue she has a patient man,
And Joan a gentle lover,
And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,­
But my true love's a rover! 

Mig, her man's as good as cheese
And honest as a briar,
Sue tells her love what he's thinking of,­
But my dear lad's a liar! 

Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha
Are thick with Mig and Joan!
They bite their threads and shake their heads
And gnaw my name like a bone; 

And Prue says, "Mine's a patient man,
As never snaps me up," 
And Agatha, "Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,
Could live content in a cup," 

Sue's man's mind is like good jell­
All one color, and clear­
And Mig's no call to think at all
What's to come next year, 

While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,
That's troubled with that and this;­
But they all would give the life they live
For a look from the man I kiss! 

Cold he slants his eyes about,
And few enough's his choice,­
Though he'd slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,
Or a beggar with knots in her voice,­ 

And Agatha will turn awake
While her good man sleeps sound,
And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue
Will hear the clock strike round, 

For Prue she has a patient man,
As asks not when or why, 
And Mig and Sue have naught to do
But peep who's passing by, 

Joan is paired with a putterer
That bastes and tastes and salts,
And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,­
But my true love is false!

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |


 Why do you follow me?--
Any moment I can be
Nothing but a laurel-tree.
Any moment of the chase I can leave you in my place A pink bough for your embrace.
Yet if over hill and hollow Still it is your will to follow, I am off; -- to heel, Apollo!

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

Kin To Sorrow

 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?
Marigolds around the step
 And rosemary stand,
And then comes Sorrow—
 And what does Sorrow care
For the rosemary
 Or the marigolds there?
Am I kin to Sorrow?
 Are we kin?
That so oft upon my door—
 Oh, come in!

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

Elegy Before Death

 There will be rose and rhododendron
When you are dead and under ground;
Still will be heard from white syringas
Heavy with bees, a sunny sound;

Still will the tamaracks be raining
After the rain has ceased, and still
Will there be robins in the stubble,
Brown sheep upon the warm green hill.
Spring will not ail nor autumn falter; Nothing will know that you are gone, Saving alone some sullen plough-land None but yourself sets foot upon; Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed Nothing will know that you are dead,— These, and perhaps a useless wagon Standing beside some tumbled shed.
Oh, there will pass with your great passing Little of beauty not your own,— Only the light from common water, Only the grace from simple stone!

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

A Visit To The Asylum

 Once from a big, big building,
When I was small, small,
The queer folk in the windows
Would smile at me and call.
And in the hard wee gardens Such pleasant men would hoe: "Sir, may we touch the little girl's hair!"— It was so red, you know.
They cut me coloured asters With shears so sharp and neat, They brought me grapes and plums and pears And pretty cakes to eat.
And out of all the windows, No matter where we went, The merriest eyes would follow me And make me compliment.
There were a thousand windows, All latticed up and down.
And up to all the windows, When we went back to town, The queer folk put their faces, As gentle as could be; "Come again, little girl!" they called, and I Called back, "You come see me!"

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |


 Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass
And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind
Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired
Of passing pleasant places! All my life,
Following Care along the dusty road,
Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed;
Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand
Tugged ever, and I passed.
All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes.
Yet onward! Cat birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural.
Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats.
Only my heart makes answer.
Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear.
Only my heart, only my heart responds.
Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs— But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

The Fawn

 There it was I saw what I shall never forget
And never retrieve.
Monstrous and beautiful to human eyes, hard to believe, He lay, yet there he lay, Asleep on the moss, his head on his polished cleft small ebony hoves, The child of the doe, the dappled child of the deer.
Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here Till I return," so spotty and plain to see On the green moss lay he.
His eyes had opened; he considered me.
I would have given more than I care to say To thrifty ears, might I have had him for my friend One moment only of that forest day: Might I have had the acceptance, not the love Of those clear eyes; Might I have been for him in the bough above Or the root beneath his forest bed, A part of the forest, seen without surprise.
Was it alarm, or was it the wind of my fear lest he depart That jerked him to his jointy knees, And sent him crashing off, leaping and stumbling On his new legs, between the stems of the white trees?

Written by Edna St Vincent Millay |

Sonnet (Women Have Loved Before As I Love Now)

 Women have loved before as I love now;
At least, in lively chronicles of the past—
Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow
Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mast
Much to their cost invaded—here and there,
Hunting the amorous line, skimming the rest,
I find some woman bearing as I bear
Love like a burning city in the breast.
I think however that of all alive I only in such utter, ancient way Do suffer love; in me alone survive The unregenerate passions of a day When treacherous queens, with death upon the tread, Heedless and willful, took their knights to bed.