Grown-up

Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Edna St. Vincent Millay

When The Year Grows Old

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

Sonnets IX

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

Assault

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

The Suicide

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Merry Maid

Oh, I am grown so free from care
    Since my heart broke!
I set my throat against the air,
    I laugh at simple folk!

There's little kind and little fair
    Is worth its weight in smoke
To me, that's grown so free from care
    Since my heart broke!

Lass, if to sleep you would repair
    As peaceful as you woke,
Best not besiege your lover there
    For just the words he spoke
To me, that's grown so free from care
    Since my heart broke!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Penitent

I had a little Sorrow,
    Born of a little Sin,
I found a room all damp with gloom
    And shut us all within;
And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,
    "And, Little Sin, pray God to die,
And I upon the floor will lie
    And think how bad I've been!"

Alas for pious planning--
    It mattered not a whit!
As far as gloom went in that room,
    The lamp might have been lit!
My little Sorrow would not weep,
    My little Sin would go to sleep--
To save my soul I could not keep
    My graceless mind on it!

So up I got in anger,
    And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on my hair
    To please a passing lad,
And, "One thing there's no getting by--
I've been a wicked girl," said I;
"But if I can't be sorry, why,
    I...

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Dirge

        Boys and girls that held her dear,
            Do your weeping now;
        All you loved of her lies here.

        Brought to earth the arrogant brow,
            And the withering tongue
        Chastened; do your weeping now.

        Sing whatever songs are sung,
            Wind whatever wreath,
        For a playmate perished young,

        For a spirit spent in death.
        Boys and girls that held her dear,
        All you loved of her lies here.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Rosemary

        For the sake of some things
            That be now no more
        I will strew rushes
            On my chamber-floor,
        I will plant bergamot
            At my kitchen-door.

        For the sake of dim things
            That were once so plain
        I will set a barrel
            Out to catch the rain,
        I will hang an iron pot
            On an iron crane.

        Many things be dead and gone
            That were brave and gay;
        For the sake of these things
            I will learn to say,
        "An it please you, gentle sirs,"
            "Alack!" and "Well-a-day!"

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Singing-Woman from the Wood's Edge

What should I be but a prophet and a liar,
Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?
Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,
What should I be but the fiend's god-daughter?

And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,
That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?
And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,
But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?

You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,
As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,
You will find such flame at the wave's weedy ebb
As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother's web,

But there comes to birth no common spawn
From the love of a priest for a leprechaun,
And you never have seen and you never will see
Such things as the t...

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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
        Made a melancholy sound,

    She had a look about her
        That I wish I could forget--
    The look of a scared thing
        Sitting in a net!

    Oh, beautiful at nightfall
        The soft spitting snow!
    And beautiful the bare boughs
        Rubbing to and fro!

    But the roaring of the fire,
        And the warmth of fur,
    And the ...

Edna St. Vincent Millay