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Edna St Vincent Millay Short Poems

Famous Short Edna St Vincent Millay Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Edna St Vincent Millay. A collection of the all-time best Edna St Vincent Millay short poems


by Edna St Vincent Millay
 And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,—
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?



by Edna St Vincent Millay
 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!

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 I

I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.
II I am waylaid by Beauty.
Who will walk Between me and the crying of the frogs? Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, That am a timid woman, on her way From one house to another!

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 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.

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 I said,—for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,—
 "I'll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in
 bed;
But I'll never leave my pillow, though there be some
 As would let him in—and take him in with tears!" I said.
I lay,—for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn,— I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep; And he found me at my window with my big cloak on, All sorry with the tears some folks might weep!



by Edna St Vincent Millay
 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!

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 Being Young and Green, I said in love's despite:
Never in the world will I to living wight
Give over, air my mind
To anyone,
Hang out its ancient secrets in the strong wind
To be shredded and faded—

Oh, me, invaded
And sacked by the wind and the sun!

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be:
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, She that had no need of me, Is a little lonely child Lost in Hell,—Persephone, Take her head upon your knee: Say to her, "My dear, my dear, It is not so dreadful here.
"

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 The trees along this city street,
Save for the traffic and the trains,
Would make a sound as thin and sweet
As trees in country lanes.
And people standing in their shade Out of a shower, undoubtedly Would hear such music as is made Upon a country tree.
Oh, little leaves that are so dumb Against the shrieking city air, I watch you when the wind has come,— I know what sound is there.

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 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 travelled more.
)

Feast  Create an image from this poem
by Edna St Vincent Millay
 I drank at every vine.
The last was like the first.
I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst.
I gnawed at every root.
I ate of every plant.
I came upon no fruit So wonderful as want.
Feed the grape and bean To the vintner and monger: I will lie down lean With my thirst and my hunger.

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before? Only a question less or a question more: Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying, House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

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!

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

Daphne  Create an image from this poem
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!

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 These wet rocks where the tide has been,
Barnacled white and weeded brown
And slimed beneath to a beautiful green,
These wet rocks where the tide went down
Will show again when the tide is high
Faint and perilous, far from shore,
No place to dream, but a place to die,—
The bottom of the sea once more.
There was a child that wandered through A giant's empty house all day,— House full of wonderful things and new, But no fit place for a child to play.

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 Butterflies are white and blue
In this field we wander through.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Death comes in a day or two.
All the things we ever knew Will be ashes in that hour, Mark the transient butterfly, How he hangs upon the flower.
Suffer me to take your hand.
Suffer me to cherish you Till the dawn is in the sky.
Whether I be false or true, Death comes in a day or two.

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 "Wolf!" cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside.
"Wolf! Wolf!"—and up would start Good neighbours, bringing spade And pitchfork to my aid.
At length my cry was known: Therein lay my release.
I met the wolf alone And was devoured in peace.

Ebb  Create an image from this poem
by Edna St Vincent Millay
 I know what my heart is like
Since your love died:
It is like a hollow ledge
Holding a little pool
Left there by the tide,
A little tepid pool,
Drying inward from the edge.

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 As I sat down by Saddle Stream
 To bathe my dusty feet there,
A boy was standing on the bridge
 Any girl would meet there.
As I went over Woody Knob And dipped into the hollow, A youth was coming up the hill Any maid would follow.
Then in I turned at my own gate,— And nothing to be sad for— To such a man as any wife Would pass a pretty lad for.

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 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!

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 No hawk hangs over in this air:
The urgent snow is everywhere.
The wing adroiter than a sail Must lean away from such a gale, Abandoning its straight intent, Or else expose tough ligament And tender flesh to what before Meant dampened feathers, nothing more.
Forceless upon our backs there fall Infrequent flakes hexagonal, Devised in many a curious style To charm our safety for a while, Where close to earth like mice we go Under the horizontal snow.

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that's a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women's ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell, --
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?

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.

by Edna St Vincent Millay
 Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?