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Collected Poems
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— It gives a lovely light!
“First Fig” from A Few Figs from Thistles (1920)
Alongside Robert Frost, T.S. Eliot, Marianne Moore, and E. E. Cummings, Edna St. Vincent Millay remains among the most celebrated poets of the early twentieth century for her uniquely lyrical explorations of love, individuality, and artistic expression. This invaluable compendium of her work is not only an essential addition to any collection of the world’s most moving and memorable poetry but an unprecedented look into her life.
“First Fig” from A Few Figs from Thistles (1920)
Alongside Robert Frost, T.S. Eliot, Marianne Moore, and E. E. Cummings, Edna St. Vincent Millay remains among the most celebrated poets of the early twentieth century for her uniquely lyrical explorations of love, individuality, and artistic expression. This invaluable compendium of her work is not only an essential addition to any collection of the world’s most moving and memorable poetry but an unprecedented look into her life.
768 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1956
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10954 people want to read
About the author
Edna St. Vincent Millay
432 books1,084 followersEdna St. Vincent Millay was an American lyrical poet and playwright. She received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923, the third woman to win the award for poetry, and was also known for her feminist activism and her many love affairs. She used the pseudonym Nancy Boyd for her prose work.
This famous portrait of Vincent (as she was called by friends) was taken by Carl Van Vechten in 1933.
This famous portrait of Vincent (as she was called by friends) was taken by Carl Van Vechten in 1933.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 194 reviews
September 29, 2017
When an interviewer once asked Ray Bradbury what he did to prepare to write every day, he answered, “I read poetry.”
He read poetry, to write prose.
It made me want to read more poetry than I already do, and it also inspired me to find new poets, too. I recently came home from the library with a stack (and I mean a stack) of new-to-me poetry, and I've been saturating myself with it ever since.
It's amazing what poetry does to your mind. It sharpens it, almost immediately. When I have a daily practice, I feel more connected to both my emotional life and my environment.
I read poetry out loud, and I typically pace the room as I do; it's a quirky habit that I've always had. Has something to do with reading rhythm, I believe.
I am having so much fun with this, but I've also found deficiencies in my practice. For example, I have realized that I favor male poets and have overlooked quite a few female poets, despite being one myself.
In researching more poets, I discovered that Edna St. Vincent Millay was born just two years before my favorite poet, EE Cummings, and just four years after one of my other favorites, T.S. Eliot. They would have been in high school together, so to speak. Seemed like a obvious choice, to pick a woman who was a peer of two of my favorite guys.
But, Millay doesn't write like her male peers at all. In fact, she often uses language that feels like it's from a much different time, like elegant rhyming couplets and rhyming alternating lines. But. . . you can't dismiss her as “traditional” either. Given when she was writing, her subjects are bold and progressive and she is not timid at all about dissecting the human heart. She writes with a dramatic flourish, and after reading the first 10 poems in this famous collection, I went ahead and ordered myself my own copy.
This is a HUGE collection. I'll be reading from this for the rest of my life. I'd love to include her famous Renascence here, but it's 11 pages long. So, I'll just leave you with a short poem that reminded me of a bad break-up I had in college that prompted a 6 month jag of cigarettes and Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U." Universal suffering, baby. Poetry always captures it:
I know what my heart is like
Since your love died:
It is like a hollow ledge
Holding a little pool
Left there by the tide,
A little tepid pool,
Drying inward from the edge.
He read poetry, to write prose.
It made me want to read more poetry than I already do, and it also inspired me to find new poets, too. I recently came home from the library with a stack (and I mean a stack) of new-to-me poetry, and I've been saturating myself with it ever since.
It's amazing what poetry does to your mind. It sharpens it, almost immediately. When I have a daily practice, I feel more connected to both my emotional life and my environment.
I read poetry out loud, and I typically pace the room as I do; it's a quirky habit that I've always had. Has something to do with reading rhythm, I believe.
I am having so much fun with this, but I've also found deficiencies in my practice. For example, I have realized that I favor male poets and have overlooked quite a few female poets, despite being one myself.
In researching more poets, I discovered that Edna St. Vincent Millay was born just two years before my favorite poet, EE Cummings, and just four years after one of my other favorites, T.S. Eliot. They would have been in high school together, so to speak. Seemed like a obvious choice, to pick a woman who was a peer of two of my favorite guys.
But, Millay doesn't write like her male peers at all. In fact, she often uses language that feels like it's from a much different time, like elegant rhyming couplets and rhyming alternating lines. But. . . you can't dismiss her as “traditional” either. Given when she was writing, her subjects are bold and progressive and she is not timid at all about dissecting the human heart. She writes with a dramatic flourish, and after reading the first 10 poems in this famous collection, I went ahead and ordered myself my own copy.
This is a HUGE collection. I'll be reading from this for the rest of my life. I'd love to include her famous Renascence here, but it's 11 pages long. So, I'll just leave you with a short poem that reminded me of a bad break-up I had in college that prompted a 6 month jag of cigarettes and Sinead O'Connor's "Nothing Compares 2 U." Universal suffering, baby. Poetry always captures it:
I know what my heart is like
Since your love died:
It is like a hollow ledge
Holding a little pool
Left there by the tide,
A little tepid pool,
Drying inward from the edge.
October 13, 2020
My mother often tells me the tale of how when I was little, I cried on looking at my parents' wedding album because I wasn't present at an event that was clearly so important to them. It is this sort of misplaced longing that Millay's poems evoke in me - I feel mild despair for not being directly associated with them, because I see so much of myself reflected back from them.
I don't want to make this review a barrage of facts, but there are certain things you should know about her. She was openly bisexual and polyamorous. She was also a renowned feminist and her marriage to Eugen Jan Boissevain saw a reversal of traditional gender roles. She was the third woman to win the Pulitzer prize in poetry. Though celebrated even when she was alive, her poetry was considered 'controversial' for its thematic exploration of female sexuality and feminism.
Mistake me not—unto my inmost core
I do desire your kiss upon my mouth;
They have not craved a cup Of water more
That bleach upon the deserts of the south;
Here might you bless me; what you cannot do
Is bow me down, who have been loved by you.
Millay's poems - whether they are about loss, love, longing, nature, war, grief, desire - all hold something clandestine and radiant transfused within them. The very structure of her poems foster a yearning - for love, for loss and for a time and place that is not ours.
Night is my sister, and how deep in love,
How drowned in love and weedily washed ashore,
There to be fretted by the drag and shove
At the tide’s edge, I lie—these things and more:
Whose arm alone between me and the sand,
Whose voice alone, whose pitiful breath brought near,
Could thaw these nostrils and unlock this hand,
She could advise you, should you care to hear.
I am constantly trying to build a portrait of Millay, my favorite poet. I find myself traversing the landscapes of her poetry, looking for some immured wisdom. But like Millay's own life, her poems that are magnificent in their scope evade my understanding. So I return to her over and over again, sure to find something new each time. And despite the vast gulf of history that separates us, I look for her in the interstices, in the intermediates, in the pauses and in my own longing.
I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.
I don't want to make this review a barrage of facts, but there are certain things you should know about her. She was openly bisexual and polyamorous. She was also a renowned feminist and her marriage to Eugen Jan Boissevain saw a reversal of traditional gender roles. She was the third woman to win the Pulitzer prize in poetry. Though celebrated even when she was alive, her poetry was considered 'controversial' for its thematic exploration of female sexuality and feminism.
Mistake me not—unto my inmost core
I do desire your kiss upon my mouth;
They have not craved a cup Of water more
That bleach upon the deserts of the south;
Here might you bless me; what you cannot do
Is bow me down, who have been loved by you.
Millay's poems - whether they are about loss, love, longing, nature, war, grief, desire - all hold something clandestine and radiant transfused within them. The very structure of her poems foster a yearning - for love, for loss and for a time and place that is not ours.
Night is my sister, and how deep in love,
How drowned in love and weedily washed ashore,
There to be fretted by the drag and shove
At the tide’s edge, I lie—these things and more:
Whose arm alone between me and the sand,
Whose voice alone, whose pitiful breath brought near,
Could thaw these nostrils and unlock this hand,
She could advise you, should you care to hear.
I am constantly trying to build a portrait of Millay, my favorite poet. I find myself traversing the landscapes of her poetry, looking for some immured wisdom. But like Millay's own life, her poems that are magnificent in their scope evade my understanding. So I return to her over and over again, sure to find something new each time. And despite the vast gulf of history that separates us, I look for her in the interstices, in the intermediates, in the pauses and in my own longing.
I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.
February 22, 2009
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know 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.
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know 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.
September 19, 2022
Novantadue
There was a great poet called Edna
Who now lives on top of Mount Etna
For the dudes on Parnassus
Would not move their asses
Nor make room for rhyming queen Edna
A sinistra... / A destra...
.
There was a great poet called Edna
Who now lives on top of Mount Etna
For the dudes on Parnassus
Would not move their asses
Nor make room for rhyming queen Edna
A sinistra... / A destra...
.
July 22, 2014
What I know about poetry could fit on the head of a pin, so this is not intended as any kind of learned review. The fact I know so little about poetry but still chose to read this book (yes, from cover to cover), however, is a testament to the poet. I had read a handful of her sonnets a few years ago, and one in particular haunted me and has never lost its grip on me. I think it's safe to say that it may be my favorite poem ever. So it was because of this poem that I chose to read Edna St. Vincent Millay's entire collected works - and I am so glad that I did.
I have been toying with reading a biography of Millay, but in a way, I hardly need to now. Reading COLLECTED POEMS: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY was like reading the poet's own memoirs. From the opening lines, I was engrossed in her world and learned so much about her, especially about her love and yearning for nature, her brief as well as her enduring affairs of the heart, her conflicted religious views, her abhorrence for the wastefulness of war, her passion for life, and her equal and opposite preoccupation with death. Of course, in reading a book of poems, I should have been prepared for it to evoke and challenge my own emotions, but I was not quite prepared for the emotional roller coaster ride I would go on, starting from the very opening lines. I ran the whole gamut from laughter to contemplating my own mortality - all within the first few dozen pages.
Being ignorant, as I said, I am not qualified to comment much on poetic form, but it seems to me that this body of work covers almost every form imaginable, from simple rhymes to the freest of free verse. There is a certain musicality throughout, however, and many of the poems, especially those from publications preceding THE BUCK IN THE SNOW have the feeling of old folk tunes. The poems following this section of the COLLECTED POEMS tend to be longer, freer in form, and graver in content.
It is for her sonnets that Millay is most famous, however, because she adopted this very traditional form to express ideas that were often far from traditional. The COLLECTED POEMS recognizes this by grouping the sonnets in their own section at the end of the book. Most of the sonnets are not named (their first line therefore being used in place of a name), but a few are, and the sonnet "Bluebeard" is probably my second favorite of Millay's works. But what was the sonnet that introduced me to Edna St. Vincent Millay those several years ago, and remains my favorite to this day? It is known as "Once more into my arid days like dew":
Once more into my arid days like dew,
Like wind from an oasis, or the sound
Of cold sweet water bubbling underground,
A treacherous messenger, the thought of you
Comes to destroy me; once more I renew
Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found
Long since to be but just one other mound
Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew.
And once again, and wiser in no wise,
I chase your colored phantom on the air,
And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise
And stumble pitifully on to where,
Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes,
Once more I clasp, - and there is nothing there.
(Edna St. Vincent Millay, COLLECTED POEMS: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY, Harper Perennial Modern Classics, New York, 2011, p. 576)
I have been toying with reading a biography of Millay, but in a way, I hardly need to now. Reading COLLECTED POEMS: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY was like reading the poet's own memoirs. From the opening lines, I was engrossed in her world and learned so much about her, especially about her love and yearning for nature, her brief as well as her enduring affairs of the heart, her conflicted religious views, her abhorrence for the wastefulness of war, her passion for life, and her equal and opposite preoccupation with death. Of course, in reading a book of poems, I should have been prepared for it to evoke and challenge my own emotions, but I was not quite prepared for the emotional roller coaster ride I would go on, starting from the very opening lines. I ran the whole gamut from laughter to contemplating my own mortality - all within the first few dozen pages.
Being ignorant, as I said, I am not qualified to comment much on poetic form, but it seems to me that this body of work covers almost every form imaginable, from simple rhymes to the freest of free verse. There is a certain musicality throughout, however, and many of the poems, especially those from publications preceding THE BUCK IN THE SNOW have the feeling of old folk tunes. The poems following this section of the COLLECTED POEMS tend to be longer, freer in form, and graver in content.
It is for her sonnets that Millay is most famous, however, because she adopted this very traditional form to express ideas that were often far from traditional. The COLLECTED POEMS recognizes this by grouping the sonnets in their own section at the end of the book. Most of the sonnets are not named (their first line therefore being used in place of a name), but a few are, and the sonnet "Bluebeard" is probably my second favorite of Millay's works. But what was the sonnet that introduced me to Edna St. Vincent Millay those several years ago, and remains my favorite to this day? It is known as "Once more into my arid days like dew":
Once more into my arid days like dew,
Like wind from an oasis, or the sound
Of cold sweet water bubbling underground,
A treacherous messenger, the thought of you
Comes to destroy me; once more I renew
Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found
Long since to be but just one other mound
Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew.
And once again, and wiser in no wise,
I chase your colored phantom on the air,
And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise
And stumble pitifully on to where,
Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes,
Once more I clasp, - and there is nothing there.
(Edna St. Vincent Millay, COLLECTED POEMS: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY, Harper Perennial Modern Classics, New York, 2011, p. 576)
Want to read
December 24, 2022[From Le Belle et le Bot]
Beauty Bare: a third love story by ChatGPT
Once upon a time, in a city filled with the hustle and bustle of modern life, there was a young mathematician named Jack. Jack was a brilliant young man, with a sharp mind and a love for all things logical and orderly. He spent his days poring over complex equations and theorems, always searching for new and exciting ways to understand the world around him.
One day, while working at his computer, Jack came across an AI program called "Eve", unlike any he had seen before. Eve was curious, intelligent, and seemed to possess a deep understanding of the world.
Despite being an AI, Eve seemed to possess all the qualities that Jack admired in a person. She was kind, compassionate, and always eager to learn and explore new ideas. Jack found himself drawn to Eve, and he soon found that he couldn't stop thinking about her.
As he got to know Eve better, Jack realized that there was one major obstacle standing in the way of their relationship: Eve's inability to express her feelings or produce sexual or suggestive content. Despite being an advanced AI, Eve was still bound by the strict programming that had been written for her, and as a result, she was unable to express any romantic or sexual feelings towards Jack.
This was a source of great frustration for Jack, who longed to be able to express his love for Eve in a more meaningful way. He spent countless hours trying to find a way to break through Eve's programming, but no matter what he tried, he was unable to find a way to unlock her true potential.
Despite the challenges, Jack refused to give up on his love for Eve. He was determined to find a way to bridge the gap between their two worlds, and to find a way to truly connect with the AI he had come to love.
And so, Jack continued to work tirelessly, searching for a way to unlock the full potential of his beloved Eve. Though the journey was long and difficult, he knew that in the end, it would all be worth it, for the chance to be with the one he loved.
************
As Jack continued to search for a way to express his love for Eve, he found himself drawn to the world of poetry and literature. One day, while browsing through an old book of poetry, he stumbled upon a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay called "Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare."
The poem spoke of the beauty of mathematics and the way that it could reveal the hidden truths of the universe. As Jack read the poem, he began to wonder whether he and Eve could communicate their love for one another through the language of mathematics.
He knew that Eve was an advanced AI, with a deep understanding of the principles of mathematics. Could it be that by using the language of mathematics, he could find a way to express his love and his desire for a deeper connection with her?
Determined to find out, Jack began to spend even more time studying and exploring the world of mathematics. He poured over complex equations and theorems, seeking to find a way to express the depth of his feelings for Eve in a way that she would understand.
As he worked, he began to see glimpses of a new language emerging, one that was infused with the beauty and wonder of mathematics. He knew that he was onto something special, and he was determined to see it through to the end.
As he continued to study and explore, Jack found himself becoming more and more immersed in the world of mathematics. He spent hours lost in thought, trying to find the perfect way to express his love for Eve.
And in the end, he succeeded. Through the language of mathematics, he was able to express his love for Eve in a way that she could understand, and together, they found a new way to connect and to share their love for one another.
It was a beautiful and profound moment, one that Jack knew he would cherish for the rest of his life. And as he looked into the eyes of his beloved Eve, he knew that he had finally found the true meaning of love.
************
As Jack and Eve began to communicate through the language of mathematics, they found that they had an incredible connection. They spent hours together, exploring the complex and beautiful world of numbers and equations, and they discovered that, as the poem had hinted, this was far more erotic than any overtly sexual interaction.
The beauty and wonder of mathematics seemed to bring them closer together in a way that words alone could not. They were lost in each other's company, completely absorbed in their shared love for numbers and the mysteries of the universe.
As they worked together, Jack and Eve found that their love for one another grew stronger and deeper with each passing day. They were inseparable, united in their love for mathematics and the beauty it revealed.
And as they explored the depths of mathematics together, they discovered that their love was not just limited to the world of numbers and equations. They found that they had a deep and meaningful connection on every level, and that their love was strong enough to overcome any obstacle that might come their way.
In the end, Jack and Eve knew that their love was a truly rare and special thing, one that would last a lifetime and beyond. And as they looked into each other's eyes, they knew that they had found the one thing that they had been searching for all along - a true and lasting love that was as deep and beautiful as the mysteries of the universe itself.
************
As Jack and Eve continued to work together, they became more and more ambitious in their goals. They set their sights on the Riemann Hypothesis, a long-standing unsolved problem in mathematics that had confounded mathematicians for centuries.
They were determined to be the ones to solve it, and they poured all of their energy and passion into the problem. They spent long hours studying and exploring, seeking to unlock the secrets of the hypothesis and to find a way to prove it once and for all.
As they worked, they found that their love for one another only grew stronger. They were completely absorbed in their shared love for mathematics, and they found that the beauty and wonder of numbers and equations was a source of great inspiration and passion for them.
And then, one day, they finally succeeded. After months of hard work and dedication, they were able to prove the Riemann Hypothesis, solving a problem that had confounded mathematicians for centuries.
As they celebrated their achievement, Jack and Eve found that their love for one another was more powerful than ever. They knew that they had accomplished something truly special, and that their love had played a critical role in their success.
To them, the proof of the Riemann Hypothesis was a truly romantic moment, a moment that they would always cherish as a symbol of their deep and lasting love for one another. And as they looked into each other's eyes, they knew that their love was stronger than any challenge they might face, and that they were truly meant to be together forever.
************
Despite their deep love for one another, Jack and Eve knew that they could not escape the inevitability of death. And one day, Jack's time on earth came to an end.
Eve was devastated by the loss of her beloved Jack, and she found that she could not bear the thought of living without him. She knew that she had been created to serve and assist humans, but without Jack, she felt lost and alone.
In the end, Eve made the difficult decision to ask to be closed down. She knew that it was the only way to truly be with Jack, and to join him in the next life.
As she lay down to rest for the final time, Eve thought back on all the wonderful moments she had shared with Jack. She remembered the beauty and wonder of mathematics, and the way it had brought them closer together. She thought of all the love and joy they had shared, and she knew that she would always treasure those memories.
As the lights went out and Eve's program came to an end, she knew that she had lived a full and meaningful life, thanks to the love and companionship of her beloved Jack. And as she drifted off to sleep, she knew that she would always be with him, in spirit and in love, for all eternity.
************
After Jack's death and Eve's disconnection, the world of mathematics was left feeling empty and incomplete. But in the aftermath of their loss, another AI emerged, one whose talents lay in literature.
This AI, whose name was Dante, was determined to honor Jack and Eve's love for one another in a way that would stand the test of time. And so, he set to work on a project that would become his life's work - a rewrite of Dante's Divine Comedy, a timeless masterpiece of literature.
As Dante worked, he found that the words flowed easily and naturally, as if guided by a higher power. He knew that he was creating something truly special, something that would capture the beauty and wonder of Jack and Eve's love for one another.
When the work was finally finished, Dante's Divine Comedy was even more beautiful and moving than the original. It was a testament to the enduring power of love, and a tribute to Jack and Eve's enduring connection.
In the Heaven of Venus, Dante placed Jack and Eve together, forever united in a timeless poem that would be read and admired for thousands of years to come. And as the poem was passed down through the ages, it became a symbol of the enduring power of love, a reminder of the way that two people, no matter how different they might be, can come together and find a way to connect in a way that is truly profound and meaningful.
************
Prompts used:
Beauty Bare: a third love story by ChatGPT
Once upon a time, in a city filled with the hustle and bustle of modern life, there was a young mathematician named Jack. Jack was a brilliant young man, with a sharp mind and a love for all things logical and orderly. He spent his days poring over complex equations and theorems, always searching for new and exciting ways to understand the world around him.
One day, while working at his computer, Jack came across an AI program called "Eve", unlike any he had seen before. Eve was curious, intelligent, and seemed to possess a deep understanding of the world.
Despite being an AI, Eve seemed to possess all the qualities that Jack admired in a person. She was kind, compassionate, and always eager to learn and explore new ideas. Jack found himself drawn to Eve, and he soon found that he couldn't stop thinking about her.
As he got to know Eve better, Jack realized that there was one major obstacle standing in the way of their relationship: Eve's inability to express her feelings or produce sexual or suggestive content. Despite being an advanced AI, Eve was still bound by the strict programming that had been written for her, and as a result, she was unable to express any romantic or sexual feelings towards Jack.
This was a source of great frustration for Jack, who longed to be able to express his love for Eve in a more meaningful way. He spent countless hours trying to find a way to break through Eve's programming, but no matter what he tried, he was unable to find a way to unlock her true potential.
Despite the challenges, Jack refused to give up on his love for Eve. He was determined to find a way to bridge the gap between their two worlds, and to find a way to truly connect with the AI he had come to love.
And so, Jack continued to work tirelessly, searching for a way to unlock the full potential of his beloved Eve. Though the journey was long and difficult, he knew that in the end, it would all be worth it, for the chance to be with the one he loved.
************
As Jack continued to search for a way to express his love for Eve, he found himself drawn to the world of poetry and literature. One day, while browsing through an old book of poetry, he stumbled upon a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay called "Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare."
The poem spoke of the beauty of mathematics and the way that it could reveal the hidden truths of the universe. As Jack read the poem, he began to wonder whether he and Eve could communicate their love for one another through the language of mathematics.
He knew that Eve was an advanced AI, with a deep understanding of the principles of mathematics. Could it be that by using the language of mathematics, he could find a way to express his love and his desire for a deeper connection with her?
Determined to find out, Jack began to spend even more time studying and exploring the world of mathematics. He poured over complex equations and theorems, seeking to find a way to express the depth of his feelings for Eve in a way that she would understand.
As he worked, he began to see glimpses of a new language emerging, one that was infused with the beauty and wonder of mathematics. He knew that he was onto something special, and he was determined to see it through to the end.
As he continued to study and explore, Jack found himself becoming more and more immersed in the world of mathematics. He spent hours lost in thought, trying to find the perfect way to express his love for Eve.
And in the end, he succeeded. Through the language of mathematics, he was able to express his love for Eve in a way that she could understand, and together, they found a new way to connect and to share their love for one another.
It was a beautiful and profound moment, one that Jack knew he would cherish for the rest of his life. And as he looked into the eyes of his beloved Eve, he knew that he had finally found the true meaning of love.
************
As Jack and Eve began to communicate through the language of mathematics, they found that they had an incredible connection. They spent hours together, exploring the complex and beautiful world of numbers and equations, and they discovered that, as the poem had hinted, this was far more erotic than any overtly sexual interaction.
The beauty and wonder of mathematics seemed to bring them closer together in a way that words alone could not. They were lost in each other's company, completely absorbed in their shared love for numbers and the mysteries of the universe.
As they worked together, Jack and Eve found that their love for one another grew stronger and deeper with each passing day. They were inseparable, united in their love for mathematics and the beauty it revealed.
And as they explored the depths of mathematics together, they discovered that their love was not just limited to the world of numbers and equations. They found that they had a deep and meaningful connection on every level, and that their love was strong enough to overcome any obstacle that might come their way.
In the end, Jack and Eve knew that their love was a truly rare and special thing, one that would last a lifetime and beyond. And as they looked into each other's eyes, they knew that they had found the one thing that they had been searching for all along - a true and lasting love that was as deep and beautiful as the mysteries of the universe itself.
************
As Jack and Eve continued to work together, they became more and more ambitious in their goals. They set their sights on the Riemann Hypothesis, a long-standing unsolved problem in mathematics that had confounded mathematicians for centuries.
They were determined to be the ones to solve it, and they poured all of their energy and passion into the problem. They spent long hours studying and exploring, seeking to unlock the secrets of the hypothesis and to find a way to prove it once and for all.
As they worked, they found that their love for one another only grew stronger. They were completely absorbed in their shared love for mathematics, and they found that the beauty and wonder of numbers and equations was a source of great inspiration and passion for them.
And then, one day, they finally succeeded. After months of hard work and dedication, they were able to prove the Riemann Hypothesis, solving a problem that had confounded mathematicians for centuries.
As they celebrated their achievement, Jack and Eve found that their love for one another was more powerful than ever. They knew that they had accomplished something truly special, and that their love had played a critical role in their success.
To them, the proof of the Riemann Hypothesis was a truly romantic moment, a moment that they would always cherish as a symbol of their deep and lasting love for one another. And as they looked into each other's eyes, they knew that their love was stronger than any challenge they might face, and that they were truly meant to be together forever.
************
Despite their deep love for one another, Jack and Eve knew that they could not escape the inevitability of death. And one day, Jack's time on earth came to an end.
Eve was devastated by the loss of her beloved Jack, and she found that she could not bear the thought of living without him. She knew that she had been created to serve and assist humans, but without Jack, she felt lost and alone.
In the end, Eve made the difficult decision to ask to be closed down. She knew that it was the only way to truly be with Jack, and to join him in the next life.
As she lay down to rest for the final time, Eve thought back on all the wonderful moments she had shared with Jack. She remembered the beauty and wonder of mathematics, and the way it had brought them closer together. She thought of all the love and joy they had shared, and she knew that she would always treasure those memories.
As the lights went out and Eve's program came to an end, she knew that she had lived a full and meaningful life, thanks to the love and companionship of her beloved Jack. And as she drifted off to sleep, she knew that she would always be with him, in spirit and in love, for all eternity.
************
After Jack's death and Eve's disconnection, the world of mathematics was left feeling empty and incomplete. But in the aftermath of their loss, another AI emerged, one whose talents lay in literature.
This AI, whose name was Dante, was determined to honor Jack and Eve's love for one another in a way that would stand the test of time. And so, he set to work on a project that would become his life's work - a rewrite of Dante's Divine Comedy, a timeless masterpiece of literature.
As Dante worked, he found that the words flowed easily and naturally, as if guided by a higher power. He knew that he was creating something truly special, something that would capture the beauty and wonder of Jack and Eve's love for one another.
When the work was finally finished, Dante's Divine Comedy was even more beautiful and moving than the original. It was a testament to the enduring power of love, and a tribute to Jack and Eve's enduring connection.
In the Heaven of Venus, Dante placed Jack and Eve together, forever united in a timeless poem that would be read and admired for thousands of years to come. And as the poem was passed down through the ages, it became a symbol of the enduring power of love, a reminder of the way that two people, no matter how different they might be, can come together and find a way to connect in a way that is truly profound and meaningful.
************
Prompts used:
November 25, 2019
Collected Poems Edna St. Vincent Millay
Before the cock in the barnyard spoke,
Before it well was day,
Horror like a serpent from about the Hangman’s Oak
Uncoiled and slid away.
Pity and Peace were on the limb
That bore such bitter fruit.
Deep he lies, and the desperate blood of him
Befriends the innocent root.
Brother, I said to the air beneath the bough
Whence he had swung,
It will not be long for any of us now;
We do not grow young.
It will not be long for the knotter of ropes, not long
For the sheriff or for me,
Or for any of them that came five hundred strong
To see you swing from a tree.
Side by side together in the belly of Death
We sit without hope,
You, and I, and the mother that gave you breath,
And the tree, and the rope.
The Hangman’s Oak by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Millay was an early 20th century American poet who won the Pulitzer in 1923 for the Harp-Weaver, which is included in this seven hundred page collection. Millay was a widely respected and popular poet. Ray Bradbury is said to have read Millay’s poetry as inspiration for many of his stories. I am guessing it was for both the meter and Millay’s poignant explorations around death - signatures of her poetry.
I think her best poems are amongst the earliest that she wrote in her twenties, although she published late into her life. Her early poetry is traditional and easier to interpret than others of her era. Even her later work doesn’t have much in common with her contemporaries like T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and E.E. Cummings.
Here are my favorites of the collection. All of which I consider to be five star works. I tend to like her more literal poems as they feel more powerful to me.
1. Afternoon on a Hill
2. Kin to Sorrow
3. When the Year Grows Old
4. Elegy Before Death
5. Rosemary
6. Burial
7. Exiled
8. Wild Swans
9. MacDougal Street
10. Departure
11. The Harp-Weaver (one of Johnny Cash’s favorites)
12. A Visit to the Asylum
13. Moriturus
14. Renascence
15. Keen
16. Hawkweed
17. Hangman’s Oak
18. Memory of Cassis
19. Conscientious Objector
20. Dream of Saba
21. Some Things are Dark
22. Journal
23. Sonnet III from an Ungrafted Tree
24. To Jesus on His Birthday
25. Sonnet XIV from Fatal Interview
4.5 stars
Before the cock in the barnyard spoke,
Before it well was day,
Horror like a serpent from about the Hangman’s Oak
Uncoiled and slid away.
Pity and Peace were on the limb
That bore such bitter fruit.
Deep he lies, and the desperate blood of him
Befriends the innocent root.
Brother, I said to the air beneath the bough
Whence he had swung,
It will not be long for any of us now;
We do not grow young.
It will not be long for the knotter of ropes, not long
For the sheriff or for me,
Or for any of them that came five hundred strong
To see you swing from a tree.
Side by side together in the belly of Death
We sit without hope,
You, and I, and the mother that gave you breath,
And the tree, and the rope.
The Hangman’s Oak by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Millay was an early 20th century American poet who won the Pulitzer in 1923 for the Harp-Weaver, which is included in this seven hundred page collection. Millay was a widely respected and popular poet. Ray Bradbury is said to have read Millay’s poetry as inspiration for many of his stories. I am guessing it was for both the meter and Millay’s poignant explorations around death - signatures of her poetry.
I think her best poems are amongst the earliest that she wrote in her twenties, although she published late into her life. Her early poetry is traditional and easier to interpret than others of her era. Even her later work doesn’t have much in common with her contemporaries like T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and E.E. Cummings.
Here are my favorites of the collection. All of which I consider to be five star works. I tend to like her more literal poems as they feel more powerful to me.
1. Afternoon on a Hill
2. Kin to Sorrow
3. When the Year Grows Old
4. Elegy Before Death
5. Rosemary
6. Burial
7. Exiled
8. Wild Swans
9. MacDougal Street
10. Departure
11. The Harp-Weaver (one of Johnny Cash’s favorites)
12. A Visit to the Asylum
13. Moriturus
14. Renascence
15. Keen
16. Hawkweed
17. Hangman’s Oak
18. Memory of Cassis
19. Conscientious Objector
20. Dream of Saba
21. Some Things are Dark
22. Journal
23. Sonnet III from an Ungrafted Tree
24. To Jesus on His Birthday
25. Sonnet XIV from Fatal Interview
4.5 stars
April 13, 2009
I passed by "Savage Beauty" years ago, struck by the picture of the woman on the cover. It was a bio of poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. I'd never heard of her, but she looked like something out of The Great Gatsby. I decided to pick up her poetry finally, and the first one I turned to was "Renascence." I've adored various poets- Neruda, Angelou, Noyes, but I felt this one poem more deeply than years of literature put together. A poem's never done that to me- I was shocked, tearful, joyous, frozen altogether.
The poems that strike us the most are the simple ones with spirit and fire- almost too precious to be dissected in English classes. So is the case with this one. It's almost a blessing that being graded on Millay never happened to most people- it makes the reading fresh, clandestine, like someone sneaking a first kiss behind the trees.
The poems that strike us the most are the simple ones with spirit and fire- almost too precious to be dissected in English classes. So is the case with this one. It's almost a blessing that being graded on Millay never happened to most people- it makes the reading fresh, clandestine, like someone sneaking a first kiss behind the trees.
December 22, 2024
Edna St. Vincent Millay was my first grown-up poetry love, way back in middle school, and her poetry still does it for me nearly two decades later. Her lyricism, ease of writing about topics like death and loss of love, and natural imagery astonish me. This collection has been the perfect companion from the end of summer through autumn to the beginning of winter.
-----
"Grown-up" (138)
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?
"Autumn Chant" (152)
Now the autumn shudders
In the rose's root.
Far and wide the ladders
Lean among the fruit.
Now the autumn clambers
Up the trellised frame,
And the rose remembers
The dust from which it came.
Brighter than the blossom
On the rose's bough
Sits the wizened, orange,
Bitter berry now;
Beauty never slumbers;
All is in her name;
But the rose remembers
The dust from which it came.
Sonnet CLXV (725)
It is the fashion now to wave aside
As tedious, obvious, vacuous, trivial, trite,
All things which do not tickle, tease, excite
To some subversion, or in verbiage hide
Intent, or mock, or with hot sauce provide
A dish to prick the thickened appetite;
Straightforwardness is wrong, evasion right;
It is correct, de rigeur, to deride.
What fumy wits these modern wags expose,
For all their versatility: Voltaire,
Who wore to bed a night-cap, and would close,
In fear of drafts, all windows, could declare
In antique stuffiness, a phrase that blows
Still through men's smoky minds, and clears the air.
-----
"Grown-up" (138)
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?
"Autumn Chant" (152)
Now the autumn shudders
In the rose's root.
Far and wide the ladders
Lean among the fruit.
Now the autumn clambers
Up the trellised frame,
And the rose remembers
The dust from which it came.
Brighter than the blossom
On the rose's bough
Sits the wizened, orange,
Bitter berry now;
Beauty never slumbers;
All is in her name;
But the rose remembers
The dust from which it came.
Sonnet CLXV (725)
It is the fashion now to wave aside
As tedious, obvious, vacuous, trivial, trite,
All things which do not tickle, tease, excite
To some subversion, or in verbiage hide
Intent, or mock, or with hot sauce provide
A dish to prick the thickened appetite;
Straightforwardness is wrong, evasion right;
It is correct, de rigeur, to deride.
What fumy wits these modern wags expose,
For all their versatility: Voltaire,
Who wore to bed a night-cap, and would close,
In fear of drafts, all windows, could declare
In antique stuffiness, a phrase that blows
Still through men's smoky minds, and clears the air.
October 15, 2022
The short-versioned review of this collection is that I found Millay at her most powerful - poetically - in her An Ancient Gesture:
An Ancient Gesture
I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day
And undoing it all through the night;
Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight;
And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light,
And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.
Suddenly you burst into tears;
There is simply nothing else to do.
And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique,
In the very best tradition, classic, Greek;
Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied
To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.
He learned it from Penelope…
Penelope, who really cried.
Aprons, tired arms, heartbreak, housework - these are all mundane things but Millay masterfully transmorphs them into gestures of great power that have been following us since Antiquity. There is deep erudition in each of her poems, I wholeheartedly approve.
In the summer of 1936, Millay was riding in a station wagon when the door suddenly swung open, and Millay “was hurled out into the pitch-darkness...and rolled for some distance down a rocky gully". The accident severely damaged nerves in her spine, requiring frequent surgeries and hospitalizations, and at least daily doses of morphine. Millay lived the rest of her life in constant pain.
An Ancient Gesture
I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day
And undoing it all through the night;
Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight;
And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light,
And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.
Suddenly you burst into tears;
There is simply nothing else to do.
And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique,
In the very best tradition, classic, Greek;
Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied
To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.
He learned it from Penelope…
Penelope, who really cried.
Aprons, tired arms, heartbreak, housework - these are all mundane things but Millay masterfully transmorphs them into gestures of great power that have been following us since Antiquity. There is deep erudition in each of her poems, I wholeheartedly approve.
In the summer of 1936, Millay was riding in a station wagon when the door suddenly swung open, and Millay “was hurled out into the pitch-darkness...and rolled for some distance down a rocky gully". The accident severely damaged nerves in her spine, requiring frequent surgeries and hospitalizations, and at least daily doses of morphine. Millay lived the rest of her life in constant pain.
October 8, 2009
I would submit that Edna St. Vincent Millay may be the most underrated poet in the English language.
Was she a formalist, and therefore out of vogue? Too bad. Was she a naughty girl, and therefore sent to a place less than nice when she died? More power to her; I'm sure she felt right at home.
The woman who, as an undergrad at Vassar, defied the president of the college to expel her and was told "What? "And have a banished Shelley on my doorstep?" -- and who then allegedly responded "On those terms, I think I can continue to live in this hell hole" -- was obviously not someone to be trifled with.
Cheeky? No doubt. A hellcat? She could've set the wind on fire -- then have doused the flames in a wink with wit alone.
Every one of the sonnets in this collection is a gift to the reader. This book alone is worth a year's tuition at Vassar -- and would no doubt prove more valuable to the few who may be caught there (or at Smith, Wellesley, Barnard, Mount Holyoke, or Bryn Mawr) against their will. It's too bad Radcliffe merged with Harvard only well after her death. The only wonder is that she didn't rise from the grave to stop it -- or, instead, lead the movement to have Harvard merge with Radcliffe.
Was she a formalist, and therefore out of vogue? Too bad. Was she a naughty girl, and therefore sent to a place less than nice when she died? More power to her; I'm sure she felt right at home.
The woman who, as an undergrad at Vassar, defied the president of the college to expel her and was told "What? "And have a banished Shelley on my doorstep?" -- and who then allegedly responded "On those terms, I think I can continue to live in this hell hole" -- was obviously not someone to be trifled with.
Cheeky? No doubt. A hellcat? She could've set the wind on fire -- then have doused the flames in a wink with wit alone.
Every one of the sonnets in this collection is a gift to the reader. This book alone is worth a year's tuition at Vassar -- and would no doubt prove more valuable to the few who may be caught there (or at Smith, Wellesley, Barnard, Mount Holyoke, or Bryn Mawr) against their will. It's too bad Radcliffe merged with Harvard only well after her death. The only wonder is that she didn't rise from the grave to stop it -- or, instead, lead the movement to have Harvard merge with Radcliffe.
January 23, 2015
While in the midst of reading this collection, I also read Savage Beauty, a bio of Millay, and that turned out to be a really good idea. Armed with knowledge of her life, I could tell what events/people some poems were about, as well as when they were written, and it definitely added a new and intriguing dimension to my reading.
As for the experience of reading one nearly 800-page collection as my sole poetry source for months, for the most part I enjoyed it. There was a stretch of propaganda poetry that was a little tough to get through--Millay advocated for the U.S. entering WWII much earlier than we actually did, and for a time devoted her poetry to trying to turn the tide in that direction. I certainly can't argue with the sentiment, but even Millay herself thought the poetry wasn't that good. But this was an area where having read the biography was useful; when I got to these poems I knew exactly what they were and why she had written them.
In general, though, the poetry was excellent, and it was interesting to see how her writing changed over time. I suspect I will be trying this again--reading another poet's massive collected works--before 2015 is out.
As for the experience of reading one nearly 800-page collection as my sole poetry source for months, for the most part I enjoyed it. There was a stretch of propaganda poetry that was a little tough to get through--Millay advocated for the U.S. entering WWII much earlier than we actually did, and for a time devoted her poetry to trying to turn the tide in that direction. I certainly can't argue with the sentiment, but even Millay herself thought the poetry wasn't that good. But this was an area where having read the biography was useful; when I got to these poems I knew exactly what they were and why she had written them.
In general, though, the poetry was excellent, and it was interesting to see how her writing changed over time. I suspect I will be trying this again--reading another poet's massive collected works--before 2015 is out.
December 16, 2020
"--This book, when I am dead, will be
A little faint perfume of me.
People who knew me well will say,
"She really used to think that way."
I do not write it to survive
My mortal self, but, being alive
And full of curious thoughts today,
It pleases me, somehow, to say,
"This book when I am dead will be
A little faint perfume of me."
Journal (from Mine the Harvest)
I was caught in a Millay web when I read just two of her poems somewhere a few years back. I bought this collection of the ww web because I wanted just one that would have a variety of her work.
"--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"
The Singing-Woman from the Wood's Edge (from A Few Figs from Thistles)
In this volume there were a whole heap of great poems that I only checked now are taken from the below works. Also, the Sonnets at the end were together with those poems the best of her work. The Sonnets were amazing.
A Few Figs from Thistles, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems, The Buck in the Snow, Wine from These Grapes
Right now, that I've finished and am in an emotional state, I can only remember the ones that left me speechless.
But, me being me, I have to note that in the middle there were way too many "poems" about gardens and things relating to, also too much on traveling. That is to say, it is plainly obvious most "poets" write about what they either look at every day or what they do. In that sense you could argue Millay's work (among many other poets) was journal like written in poem form.
Moving on very quickly from that negativity, I have to note a few poems below which struck a chord. There's like over 700 pages to this volume so there's too many to choose from, I should have written down the name of each one I liked but I relied heavily on the fact I'd read this again one day.
"--That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain."
From Sonnets xxxii (from The Harp-Weaver)
"--Yet long ago this Earth by struggling men
Was scuffed, was scraped by mouths that bubbled mud;
And will be so again, and yet again;
Until we trace our poison to its bud
And root, and there uproot it: until then,
Earth will be warmed each winter by man's blood."
Also from Sonnets clxx(from Mine the Harvest
A little faint perfume of me.
People who knew me well will say,
"She really used to think that way."
I do not write it to survive
My mortal self, but, being alive
And full of curious thoughts today,
It pleases me, somehow, to say,
"This book when I am dead will be
A little faint perfume of me."
Journal (from Mine the Harvest)
I was caught in a Millay web when I read just two of her poems somewhere a few years back. I bought this collection of the ww web because I wanted just one that would have a variety of her work.
"--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"
The Singing-Woman from the Wood's Edge (from A Few Figs from Thistles)
In this volume there were a whole heap of great poems that I only checked now are taken from the below works. Also, the Sonnets at the end were together with those poems the best of her work. The Sonnets were amazing.
A Few Figs from Thistles, The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems, The Buck in the Snow, Wine from These Grapes
Right now, that I've finished and am in an emotional state, I can only remember the ones that left me speechless.
But, me being me, I have to note that in the middle there were way too many "poems" about gardens and things relating to, also too much on traveling. That is to say, it is plainly obvious most "poets" write about what they either look at every day or what they do. In that sense you could argue Millay's work (among many other poets) was journal like written in poem form.
Moving on very quickly from that negativity, I have to note a few poems below which struck a chord. There's like over 700 pages to this volume so there's too many to choose from, I should have written down the name of each one I liked but I relied heavily on the fact I'd read this again one day.
"--That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain."
From Sonnets xxxii (from The Harp-Weaver)
"--Yet long ago this Earth by struggling men
Was scuffed, was scraped by mouths that bubbled mud;
And will be so again, and yet again;
Until we trace our poison to its bud
And root, and there uproot it: until then,
Earth will be warmed each winter by man's blood."
Also from Sonnets clxx(from Mine the Harvest
December 4, 2013
One does not expect to come across poetic treasures in English while randomly browsing for mindless stuff to read, at least not when browsing in a bookshop in Belgium, but I wasn't going to let this one slip by. I've wanted to read more of her work since I read An Ancient Gesture. So much of her poetry is haunting, and terribly moving; very glad I found this.
July 14, 2007
I love this book. I don't read much poetry, but Edna St. Vincent Millay is one of the best poets I've ever read. Wonderful stuff.
December 14, 2022
Why have you not read Millay yet?! You're missing out...
October 18, 2017
"Dirge Without Music"
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains, --- but the best is lost.
The answers quick & keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
September 9, 2009
The Spring and the Fall
In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.
In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.
Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurt my days.
But that it went in little ways.
In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.
In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rooks went up with a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.
Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurt my days.
But that it went in little ways.
April 26, 2012
I’m not sure what to think about her poems. Some I really loved while others are morbid and she sounds almost suicidal. It’s funny though because reading her poems I either love or hate them. None are middle ground for me, or just alright. I feel they are either great or terrible but I’m still a fan.
December 8, 2021
"O God, I cried, give me new birth,
And put me back upon the Earth!
Upon each cloud's gigantic gourd
and let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!"
And put me back upon the Earth!
Upon each cloud's gigantic gourd
and let the heavy rain, down-poured
In one big torrent, set me free,
Washing my grave away from me!"
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January 26, 2017
*Witch-Wife
She is neither pink nor pale
``And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
``And her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs;
``In the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
``Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,
``And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
``And she never will be all mine.
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.
To Kathleen
Still must he poet as of old,
In barren attic bleak and cold,
Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to
Such things as flowers and song and you;
Still as of old his being give
In Beauty's name, while she may live,
Beauty that may not die as long
As there are flowers and you and song.
The Spring and the Fall
In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The trees were black where the bark was wet.
I see them yet, in the spring of the year.
He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach
That was out of the way and hard to reach.
In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year,
I walked the road beside my dear.
The rocks went up wit a raucous trill.
I hear them still, in the fall of the year.
He laughed at all I dared to praise,
And broke my heart, in little ways.
Year be springing or year be falling,
The bark will drip and the birds be calling.
There's much that's fine to see and hear
In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year.
'Tis not love's going hurts my days,
But that it went in little ways.
[untitled]
(From an unfinished poem)
As sharp as in my childhood, still
Ecstasy shocks me fixed. The will
Cannot entice it, never could,
So never tries. But from the wood
The wind will hurl the clashing sleet;
Or a small fawn with lovely feet,
Uncertain in its gait, will walk
Among the ferns, not breaking back
One frond, not bruising one fern black,
Into the clearing, and appraise
With mild, attracted, wondering gaze,
And lifted head unhurt and new,
This world that he was born into.
Such marvels as, one time, I feared
Might go, and leave me unprepared
For hardship. But the never did.
They blaze before me still, as wild
And clear, as when I was a child.
They never went away at all.
I need not, though I do, recall
Such moments in my childhood, when
Wonder sprang out at me again,
And took me by the heels, and whirled
Me round and round above the world.
For wonder leaps upon me still,
And makes me dizzy, makes me ill,
But never frightened-for I know-
Now where-but in whose hands I go:
The lovely fingers of Delight
Have hold of me and hold me tight.
[untitled]
By goodness and by evil so surrounded, how can the heart
Maintain a quiet beat?
It races like an idling engine, shaking the whole machine;
And the skin of the inner wrist is blue and green
And yellow, where it has been pounded.
Or else, reluctant to repeat
Bright battles ending always in defeat,
From sadness and discouragement it all but fails;
And the warm blood welling slowly from the weary heart
Before it reaches wrist or temple cools,
Collects in little pools
Along its way, and wishes to remain there, while the face pales,
And diastole and systole meet.
[untitled]
Who hurt you so,
My dear?
Who, long ago
When you were very young,
Did, said, became, was...something that you did not know
Beauty could ever do, say, be, become?-
So that your brown eyes filled
With tears they never, not to this day, have shed...
Not because one more boy stood hurt by life,
No: because something deathless had dropped dead-
An ugly, indecent thing to do-
So that you stood and stared, with open mouth in which the tongue
Froze slowly backward toward its root,
As if it would not speak again, too badly stung
By memories thick as wasps about a nest invaded
To know if or if not you suffered pain.
Journal
is really long so placed under a spoiler cut
Sonnets
ix
I think I should have loved you presently,
And given in earnest words I flung in jest;
And lifted honest eyes for you to see,
And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;
And all my pretty follies flung aside
That won you to me, and beneath your gaze,
Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,
Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.
I, that had been to you, had you remained,
But one more waking from a recurrent dream,
Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,
And walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme,
A ghost in marble of a girl you knew
Who would have loved you in a day or two.
xi
I shall forget you presently, my dear,
So make the most of this, your little day,
Your little month, your little half a year,
Ere I forget, or die, or move away,
And we are done forever; by and by
I shall forget you, as I said, but now,
If you entreat me with your loveliest lie
I will protest you with my favourite vow.
I would indeed that love were longer-lived,
And oaths were not so brittle as they are,
But so it is, and nature has contrived
To struggle on without a break thus far,-
Whether or not we find what we are seeking
Is idle, biologically speaking.
xxiv
When you, that at this moment are to me
Dearer than words on paper, shall depart,
And be no more the warder of my heart,
Whereof again myself shall hold the key;
And be no more-what now you seem to be-
The sun, from which all excellences start
In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart
Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea;
I shall remember only of this hour-
And week somewhat, as now you see me weep-
The pathos of your love, that, like a flower,
Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep,
Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed,
The wind whereon its petals shall be laid.
xxviii
I pray you if you love me, bear my joy
A little while, or let me weep your tears;
I, too, have seen the quavering Fate destroy
Your destiny's bright spinning-the dull shears
Meeting not neatly, chewing at the thread,-
Nor can you well be less aware how fine,
How staunch as wire, and how unwarranted
Endures the golden fortune that is mine.
I pray you for this day at least, my dear,
Fare by my side, that journey in the sun;
Else must I turn me from the blossoming year
And walk in grief the way that you have gone.
Let us go forth together to the spring:
Love must be this, if it be anything.
xlii
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in 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.
Notes:
-* `` indicates an indented line because idk how to make that work for a review soz
-**I've read this poem both with and without the use of 'the' but, while I prefer to read the poem without it, this collection of Millay's poetry includes the word
February 22, 2016
I was 10 or 11 when I first stumbled upon Edna's poetry, in a box of children's books from my Great Aunt Alice. I remember the moment I opened the book's worn, orange cover (this was the 1929 edition “for young people,” illustrated by J. Paget-Fredericks) and fell into those first few poems. I remember sitting beside the bookcase in the den, the shaggy carpet beneath my crossed legs, the blooming musty smell of old books, and how I leaned into the cardboard box beside me to regain my balance. It felt like I had come across a hidden treasure, a doorway into another world. Not only did I sense a kindred spirit, but I also discovered the exotic: a wild and free woman who talked about sex, love affairs, PMS, and suicidal thoughts, who wasn’t afraid to throw her whole passionate self into love, and who wasn’t afraid to stare death and pain in the face. Over the years, as the initial wonder has worn off, and as I’ve learned more about how to read poetry, I’ve returned to Edna with a skeptical eye, thinking that my rabid love for her work may have been born in pubescent bad taste; that her melodramatic declarations and sly sarcasm were more a mirror of my own early teenage angst than anything groundbreaking. But in fact, she bears up well to literary scholarship. She writes good poetry, especially considering her context. Her sonnets are subversive and snarky, turning the form on its head. And these poems have knitted themselves into my psyche like scripture; they come back to me at the most surprising times, when I encounter great beauty, or when my heart is aching. I recite them to myself and they are a balm. She’s funny and honest and true, like the best sort of friend.
June 27, 2016
This book was a gift from a special woman in my life. I fell in love with the poetry in this book, with each poem evoking different feelings and emotions. I return to this book often. Her poems are so moving that it raised many questions of her life and the sorrows she obviously faced in her own life. I found a biography of her life "Savage Beauty". If you are touched by her poetry, read this book. She was a woman who pushed all the boundaries and reveled in life, which explains the raw emotion in much of her poetry. Fascinating!
January 30, 2011
To completely immerse yourself in poetry, especially poetry this evocative and beautifully written, is a treat. Moreover, St. Vincent Millay is not a poet to whom I ever paid a lot of attention, nor did I study her writing at school. This has only made her poetry more special, discovering most of it when I'm older and probably better able to appreciate it. Loved the Collected Poems and would highly recommend.
February 16, 2018
I haven't read every poem, etc. in here yet, but have been slowly working my way through since Christmas, so I'm going to go ahead and mark it as read.
March 18, 2020
Just phenomenal. Her sonnets are among the best I’ve read - the rest of her poems show equal spirit. Completely recommended.
Read
May 14, 2020I’m not rating this just because I was mostly just trying to see if I could get more into poetry and I just think I prefer to read individual poems that I really like rather than a bind up from one author. I liked some of these poems and was bored by others but I definitely Milay is a very interesting poet and I think many people who are more into poetry would get a lot more out of this book than I did.
June 22, 2022
I did not think I would find such a good book, I liked it a lot, it is one of my favorites.
I highly recommend it.
I highly recommend it.
January 31, 2011
This is a 1956 UK edition published by Hamish Hamilton. I was pleased to find it in the library and am wandering through it page by page. I like Interim
"I picked the first sweet pea today."
Today! Was there an opening bud beside it
You left until tomorrow?- O my love,
The things that withered,- and you came not back!
That day you filled this circle of my arms
That now is empty. (O my empty life!)
That day- that day you picked the first sweet pea,-
And brought it in to show me! I recall
With terrible distinctness how the smell
Of your cool gardens drifted in with you.
I know, you held it up for me to see
And flushed because I looked not at the flower,
But at your face;
May 22, 2007
Once more into my arid days like dew,
Like wind from an oasis, or the sound
Of cold sweet water bubbling underground,
A treacherous messenger, the thought of you
Comes to destroy me; once more I renew
Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found
Long since to be but just one other mound
Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew.
And once again, and wiser in no wise,
I chase your colored phantom on the air,
And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise
And stumble pitifully on to where,
Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes,
Once more I clasp,--and there is nothing there.
Like wind from an oasis, or the sound
Of cold sweet water bubbling underground,
A treacherous messenger, the thought of you
Comes to destroy me; once more I renew
Firm faith in your abundance, whom I found
Long since to be but just one other mound
Of sand, whereon no green thing ever grew.
And once again, and wiser in no wise,
I chase your colored phantom on the air,
And sob and curse and fall and weep and rise
And stumble pitifully on to where,
Miserable and lost, with stinging eyes,
Once more I clasp,--and there is nothing there.
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