pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn. — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
It's little I know what's in my heart,What's in my mind it's little I know,But there's that in me must up and… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
This have I known always: Love is no more than the wide blossom which the wind assails, than the great tide that… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
Cruel of heart, lay down my song. Your reading eyes have done me wrong. Not for you was the pen bitten, And… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
And what are you that, missing you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind, Am urged by your propinquity to… — Edna St. Vincent Millay Copy Share Image
l am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will… — 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
