Vincent Millay
Vincent Millay
wall night men
And what are you that, missing you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for your sake? And what are you that, missing you, As many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind And looking at the wall? I know a man that’s a braver man And twenty men as kind, And what are you, that you should be The one man in my mind? Yet women’s ways are witless ways, As any sage will tell,— And what am I, that I should love So wisely and so well?
again damn life
Life isn't one damn thing after another. It's the same damn thing again and again.
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!
hurt book writing
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.
rose ifs
I would blossom if I were a rose.
rope world small-words
When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! "I had you and I have you now no more.
flower heart eye
But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.
beer years skittles
Life isn't all beer and skittles; few of us have touched a skittle in years.
life cups flight
Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
heart learning mind
pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.
sweet flower sleep
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 pain self
And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you all through my life?-sharing my fire, my bed, Sharing-oh, worst of all things!-the same head?- And, when I feed myself, feeding you too?