Songs Of Shattering III

    All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
        Ere spring was going--ah, spring is gone!
    And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,--
        Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

    All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
        Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
    And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
        And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sorrow

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

Daphne

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

The Bean-Stalk

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

The Philosopher

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

English

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Songs Of Shattering II

    Let the little birds sing;
        Let the little lambs play;
    Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;--
        But not in the old way!

    I recall a place
        Where a plum-tree grew;
    There you lifted up your face,
        And blossoms covered you.

    If the little birds sing,
        And the little lambs play,
    Spring is here; and so 'tis spring--
        But not in the old way!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Songs Of Shattering I

    The first rose on my rose-tree
        Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
    During sad days when to me
            Nothing mattered.

    Grief of grief has drained me clean;
        Still it seems a pity
    No one saw,--it must have been
            Very pretty.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Song Of A Second April

        April this year, not otherwise
            Than April of a year ago,
        Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
            Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
            Hepaticas that pleased you so
        Are here again, and butterflies.

        There rings a hammering all day,
            And shingles lie about the doors;
        In orchards near and far away
            The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
            The men are merry at their chores,
        And children earnest at their play.

        The larger streams run still and deep,
            Noisy and swift the small brooks run
        Among the mullein stalks the sheep
            Go up the hillside in the sun,
            Pensively,--only you are gone,
        You tha...

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Spring

        To what purpose, April, do you return again?
        Beauty is not enough.
        You can no longer quiet me with the redness
        Of little leaves opening stickily.
        I know what I know.
        The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
        The spikes of the crocus.
        The smell of the earth is good.
        It is apparent that there is no death.
        But what does that signify?
        Not only under ground are the brains of men
        Eaten by maggots,
        Life in itself
        Is nothing,
        An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
        It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
        April
        Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sonnet III

    Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,
        And all the flowers that in the springtime grow,
        And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow
    Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing
    The summer through, and each departing wing,
        And all the nests that the bared branches show,
        And all winds that in any weather blow,
    And all the storms that the four seasons bring.

    You go no more on your exultant feet
        Up paths that only mist and morning knew,
    Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat
        Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,--
    But you were something more than young and sweet
        And fair,--and the long year remembers you.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Death Of Autumn

        When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
        And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
        Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
        Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
        Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
        Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,--
        Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
        My heart.    I know that Beauty must ail and die,
        And will be born again,--but ah, to see
        Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
        Oh, Autumn!    Autumn!--What is the Spring to me?

Edna St. Vincent Millay