Edna St. Vincent Millay Quotes
Cut if you will with sleep's dull knife, the years from off your life, my friend! the years that death takes off my life, he'll take from off the other end!
Not poppy, nor mandrake, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep, Which thou owest yesterday.
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.
Beauty in all things-no, we cannot hope for that; but some place set apart for it.
Oh, children, growing up to be Adventurers into sophistry, Forbear, forbear to be of those That read the rood to learn the rose.
If I love you Wednesday, What is that to you? I do not love you Thursday - so much is true.
Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age. The child is grown, and puts away childish things. Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.
Please don't think me negligent or rude. I am both, in effect, of course, but please don't think me either.
If I could have two things in one: the peace of the grave, and the light of the sun.
Not for the flag Of any land because myself was born there Will I give up my life. But I will love that land where man is free, And that will I defend.
Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand. Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: 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?
We are all ruled in what we do by impulses; and these impulses are so organized that our actions in general serve for our self preservation and that of the race.
A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book nothing can help him.
Earth does not understand her child, Who from the loud gregarious town Returns, depleted and defiled, To the still woods, to fling him down.
Under my head till morning; but the rain, Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh, Upon the glass and listen for reply.
Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.
For the body at best Is a bundle of aches, Longing for rest; It cries when it wakes.
All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back on loveliness and sighed.
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.
Life isn't all beer and skittles; few of us have touched a skittle in years.
Oh, you mean I'm a homosexual! Of course I am, and heterosexual too, but what's that got to do with my headache?
After all my erstwhile dear, my no longer cherished; Need we say it was not love, just because it perished?
