St. Vincent
St. Vincent
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionMusician
Date of Birth28 September 1982
CountryUnited States of America
regret hate grief
For my omniscience paid I toll In infinite remorse of soul. All sin was of my sinning, all Atoning mine, and mine the gall Of all regret. Mine was the weight Of every brooded wrong, the hate That stood behind each envious thrust, Mine every greed, mine every lust. And all the while for every grief, Each suffering, I craved relief With individual desire, – Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire About a thousand people crawl; Perished with each, — then mourned for all!
hate people gathering
I hate people but I love gatherings.
hate mean equality
Let us not forget such words, and all they mean, as hatred, bitterness, and rancor greed, intolerance, bigotry; let us renew our faith and pledge to man, his right to be himself and free.
hate class people
The only people I really hate are servants. They're not really human beings at all.
funny inspirational-love hate
I love humanity but I hate people.
car eight grew hours texas
I grew up in Texas and we used to go to Padre Island, eight hours in the car down to the beach.
people tables aging
To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak ...
beautiful noble green
Beautiful as a dandelion-blossom, golden in the green grass, This life can be. Common as a dandelion-blossom, beautiful in the clean grass, not beautiful Because common, beautiful because beautiful, Noble because common, because free.
children childhood age
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.
lying eye dust
She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.
book dust broken
Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!
prayer past eight
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?
mean
Guess I'll weep awhile. Guess I won't, I mean.
children father men
Listen, children: Your father is dead. From his old coats I'll make you little jackets; I'll make you little trousers From his old pants. There'll be in his pockets Things he used to put there, Keys and pennies Covered with tobacco; Dan shall have the pennies To save in his bank; Anne shall have the keys To make a pretty noise with. Life must go on, Though good men die; Anne, eat your breakfast; Dan, take your medicine; Life must go on; I forget just why.