The Shroud

    Death, I say, my heart is bowed
        Unto thine,--O mother!
    This red gown will make a shroud
        Good as any other!

    (I, that would not wait to wear
        My own bridal things,
    In a dress dark as my hair
        Made my answerings.

    I, to-night, that till he came
        Could not, could not wait,
    In a gown as bright as flame
        Held for them the gate.)

    Death, I say, my heart is bowed
        Unto thine,--O mother!
    This red gown will make a shroud
        Good as any other!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Little Hill

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

Pastoral

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

Mariposa

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

Sonnet II

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Simple Poetry

English

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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

Sonnets VIII

        And you as well must die, beloved dust,
        And all your beauty stand you in no stead;
        This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head,
        This body of flame and steel, before the gust
        Of Death, or under his autumnal frost,
        Shall be as any leaf, be no less dead
        Than the first leaf that fell,--this wonder fled.
        Altered, estranged, disintegrated, lost.
        Nor shall my love avail you in your hour.
        In spite of all my love, you will arise
        Upon that day and wander down the air
        Obscurely as the unattended flower,
        It mattering not how beautiful you were,
        Or how beloved above all else that dies.

Edna St. Vincent Millay

A Ballad of Death

Kneel down, fair Love, and fill thyself with tears,
Girdle thyself with sighing for a girth
Upon the sides of mirth,
Cover thy lips and eyelids, let thine ears
Be filled with rumour of people sorrowing;
Make thee soft raiment out of woven sighs
Upon the flesh to cleave,
Set pains therein and many a grievous thing,
And many sorrows after each his wise
For armlet and for gorget and for sleeve.

O Loves lute heard about the lands of death,
Left hanged upon the trees that were therein;
O Love and Time and Sin,
Three singing mouths that mourn now underbreath,
Three lovers, each one evil spoken of;
O smitten lips wherethrough this voice of mine
Came softer with her praise;
Abide a little for our ladys love.
The kisses of her mouth were more than win...

Algernon Charles Swinburne

The Death-Song.

Mother, mother! my heart is wild,
    Hold me upon your bosom dear,
Do not frown on your own poor child,
    Death is darkly drawing near.

Mother, mother! the bitter shame
    Eats into my very soul;
And longing love, like a wrapping flame,
    Burns me away without control.

Mother, mother! upon my brow
    The clammy death-sweats coldly rise;
How dim and strange your features grow
    Through the hot mist that veils my eyes!

Mother, mother! sing me the song
    They sing on sunny August eves,
The rustling barley-fields along,
    Binding up the ripe, red sheaves.

Mother, mother!    I do not hear
    Your voice - but his, - oh, guard me well!
His breathing makes me faint with fear,
    His clasping arms are round me still...

Frances Anne Kemble

Elegy Before Death

        There will be rose and rhododendron
            When you are dead and under ground;
        Still will be heard from white syringas
            Heavy with bees, a sunny sound;

        Still will the tamaracks be raining
            After the rain has ceased, and still
        Will there be robins in the stubble,
            Brown sheep upon the warm green hill.

        Spring will not ail nor autumn falter;
            Nothing will know that you are gone,
        Saving alone some sullen plough-land
            None but yourself sets foot upon;

        Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed
            Nothing will know that you are dead,--
        These, and perhaps a useless wagon
            Standing beside some tumbled shed.

 ...

Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Poet And His Book

        Down, you mongrel, Death!
            Back into your kennel!
        I have stolen breath
            In a stalk of fennel!
        You shall scratch and you shall whine
            Many a night, and you shall worry
            Many a bone, before you bury
        One sweet bone of mine!

        When shall I be dead?
            When my flesh is withered,
        And above my head
            Yellow pollen gathered
        All the empty afternoon?
            When sweet lovers pause and wonder
            Who am I that lie thereunder,
        Hidden from the moon?

        This my personal death?--
            That lungs be failing
        To inhale the breath
            Others are exhaling?
        This my subtle spirit...

Edna St. Vincent Millay