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Edna St. Vincent Millay

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)

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Feminism · Glbt · Modernism · Poetry

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sorrow like a ceaseless rain       Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain, — Dawn will find them still again; This has neither wax nor wane,       Neither stop nor start. People dress and go to town;       I sit in my chair. All my thoughts are slow and brown: Standing up… Continue reading Edna St. Vincent Millay

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Excerpt · Feminism · Glbt · Modernism · Passage · Poetry

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows its boughs more silent than before: I cannot say what loves have come and gone, I only know that summer sang in me A little while, that in me sings no more. — Edna St. Vincent… Continue reading Edna St. Vincent Millay

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Excerpt · Feminism · Glbt · Modernism · Poetry

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Death devours all lovely things: Lesbia with her sparrow Shares the darkness – presently Every bed is narrow. Unremembered as old rain Dries the sheer libation; And the little petulant hand Is an annotation. After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Just because it perished? —… Continue reading Edna St. Vincent Millay

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