When the Year Grows Old I cannot but remember When the year grows old—October—November— How she disliked the cold! She used to watch the swallows Go down across the sky,And turn from the window With a little sharp sigh. And often when the brown leaves Were brittle on the ground,And the wind in the chimney … Continue reading Edna St. Vincent Millay
Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough And gathered into barrels. He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs. Though the branches bend like reeds, Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree, He that would eat of love may bear away with… Continue reading Edna St. Vincent Millay
Life must go on; I forget just why. — Edna St. Vincent Millay, from “Lament,” Early Poems. (Penguin Classics; Reprint edition, December 1, 1998)
Sonnet IV I know I am but summer to your heart, And not the full four seasons of the year; And you must welcome from another part Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear. No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing; And I have… Continue reading Edna St. Vincent Millay
I know I am but summer to your heart / And not the full four seasons of the year. ― Edna St. Vincent Millay, from “Sonnet IV,” The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems. (Kessinger Publishing, LLC, July 26, 2004) Originally published 1920.
Soar, eat ether, see what has never been seen; depart, be lost, But climb. — Edna St. Vincent Millay, from “One Thought in Harness,” Saturday Evening Post;2/24/1934, Vol. 206 Issue 35, p23.
You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that. — in a letter to her mother as to why she must live alone. Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay by Nancy Milford. (Random House Trade Paperbacks; Reprint edition September 10, 2002)