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 you were something more than young and sweet And fair, - and the long year remembers you. — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
Ah, I could lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
Dust in an urn long since, dispersed and dead Is great Apollo; and the happier he — 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
I know I am but summer to your heart, And not the full four seasons of the year; And you must welcome… — 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
