Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell. — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
I will be the gladdest thing under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one. — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly,… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine:… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
Spring TO what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
There are a hundred places where I fear To go, --so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief or grief has drained me… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky. — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
“And you as well must die, beloved dust, And all your beauty stand you in no stead; This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
Oh, children, growing up to be Adventurers into sophistry, Forbear, forbear to be of those That read the rood to learn the rose. — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
Some of us have been thinking and talking too long without doing anything. Poems are perfect; picketing, sometimes, is better. — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
“But, sure, the sky is big, I said; Miles and miles above my head; So here upon my back I'll lie And look my… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn. — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
