Vincent Millay
Vincent Millay
fall boards crumbs
Catch from the board of beauty/ Such careless crumbs as fall.
thinking clouds remember-you
I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind, Am urged by your propinquity to find Your person fair, and feel a certain zest To bear your body's weight upon my breast; So subtly is the fume of life designed, To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind, And leave me once again undone, possessed. Think not for this, however, the poor treason Of my stout blood against my staggering brain, I shall remember you with love, or season My scorn with pity, - let me make it plain: I find this frenzy insufficient reason For conversation when we meet again.
men made mines
But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.
life rain love-is
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain; Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink And rise and sink and rise and sink again; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
past lasts saws
I saw and heard, and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, and present, and forevermore.
garden like-you stalking
I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.
flower smell rose
Heap not on this mound roses that she loved so well; why bewilder her with roses that she cannot see or smell.
voice sea steps
And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.
sweet remembers-you years
But you were something more than young and sweet And fair, - and the long year remembers you.
passion thinking roots
I do not think there is a woman in whom the roots of passion shoot deeper than in me.
rain tonight ghost
... but the rain Is full of ghosts tonight
hair hands shoes
I dread no more the first white in my hair, Or even age itself, the easy shoe, The cane, the wrinkled hands, the special chair: Time, doing this to me, may alter too My anguish, into something I can bear
travel faithful fabric
The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here - but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel!
life eye snow
How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers The buck in the snow . . . Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.