Poems List

Wraith

Wraith


"Thin Rain, whom are you haunting,
That you haunt my door?"
—Surely it is not I she's wanting;
Someone living here before—
"Nobody's in the house but me:
You may come in if you like and see."


Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,—
Have you seen her, any of you?—
Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind,
And the garden showing through?


Glimmering eyes,—and silent, mostly,
Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr,
Asking something, asking it over,
If you get a sound from her.—


Ever see her, any of you?—
Strangest thing I've ever known,—
Every night since I moved in,
And I came to be alone.


"Thin Rain, hush with your knocking!
You may not come in!
This is I that you hear rocking;
Nobody's with me, nor has been!"


Curious, how she tried the window,—
Odd, the way she tries the door,—
Wonder just what sort of people
Could have had this house before . . .
380

Wild Swans

Wild Swans

I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more:
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying!
324

When We Are Old And These Rejoicing Veins

When We Are Old And These Rejoicing Veins

When we are old and these rejoicing veins
Are frosty channels to a muted stream,
And out of all our burning their remains
No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream,
This be our solace: that it was not said
When we were young and warm and in our prime,
Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead,
Sleeping away the unreturning time.
O sweet, O heavy-lidded, O my love,
When morning strikes her spear upon the land,
And we must rise and arm us and reprove
The insolent daylight with a steady hand,
Be not discountenanced if the knowing know
We rose from rapture but an hour ago.
408

We Talk of Taxes...

We Talk of Taxes...

We talk of taxes, and I call you friend;
Well, such you are, -- but well enough we know
How thick about us root, how rankly grow
Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend,
That flourish through neglect, and soon must send
Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow
Our steady senses; how such matters go
We are aware, and how such matters end.
Yet shall be told no meagre passion here;
With lovers such as we forevermore
Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere
Receives the Table's ruin through her door,
Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear,
Lets fall the coloured book upon the floor.
323

When I Too Long Have Looked Upon Your Face

When I Too Long Have Looked Upon Your Face

When I too long have looked upon your face,
Wherein for me a brightness unobscured
Save by the mists of brightness has its place,
And terrible beauty not to be endured,
I turn away reluctant from your light,
And stand irresolute, a mind undone,
A silly, dazzled thing deprived of sight
From having looked too long upon the sun.
Then is my daily life a narrow room
In which a little while, uncertainly,
Surrounded by impenetrable gloom,
Among familiar things grown strange to me
Making my way, I pause, and feel, and hark,
Till I become accustomed to the dark.
379

Two Sonnets In Memory

Two Sonnets In Memory

(Nicola Sacco -- Bartolomeo Vanzetti)
Executed August 23, 1927


I


As men have loved their lovers in times past
And sung their wit, their virtue and their grace,
So have we loved sweet Justice to the last,
That now lies here in an unseemly place.
The child will quit the cradle and grow wise
And stare on beauty till his senses drown;
Yet shall be seen no more by mortal eyes
Such beauty as here walked and here went down.
Like birds that hear the winter crying plain
Her courtiers leave to seek the clement south;
Many have praised her, we alone remain
To break a fist against the lying mouth
Of any man who says this was not so:
Though she be dead now, as indeed we know.


II


Where can the heart be hidden in the ground
And be at peace, and be at peace forever,
Under the world, untroubled by the sound
Of mortal tears, that cease from pouring never?
Well for the heart, by stern compassion harried,
If death be deeper than the churchmen say, --
Gone from this world indeed what's graveward carried,
And laid to rest indeed what's laid away.
Anguish enough while yet the indignant breather
Have blood to spurt upon the oppressor's hand;
Who would eternal be, and hang in ether
A stuffless ghost above his struggling land,
Retching in vain to render up the groan
That is not there, being aching dust's alone?
335

To Those Without Pity

To Those Without Pity

Cruel of heart, lay down my song,
Your reading eyes have done me wrong,
Not for you was the pen bitten,
And the mind wrung, and the song written.
351

To Kathleen

To Kathleen

Still must the 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.
351

To A Poet That Died Young

To A Poet That Died Young

Minstrel, what have you to do
With this man that, after you,
Sharing not your happy fate,
Sat as England's Laureate?
Vainly, in these iron days,
Strives the poet in your praise,
Minstrel, by whose singing side
Beauty walked, until you died.


Still, though none should hark again,
Drones the blue-fly in the pane,
Thickly crusts the blackest moss,
Blows the rose its musk across,
Floats the boat that is forgot
None the less to Camelot.


Many a bard's untimely death
Lends unto his verses breath;
Here's a song was never sung:
Growing old is dying young.
Minstrel, what is this to you:
That a man you never knew,
When your grave was far and green,
Sat and gossipped with a queen?


Thalia knows how rare a thing
Is it, to grow old and sing;
When a brown and tepid tide
Closes in on every side.
Who shall say if Shelley's gold
Had withstood it to grow old?
311

Three Songs Of Shattering

Three Songs Of Shattering

I

The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw,—it must have been
Very pretty.

II

Let the little birds sing;
Let the little lambs play;
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;—
But not in the old way!

I recall a place
Where a plum-tree grew;
There you lifted up your face,
And blossoms covered you.

If the little birds sing,
And the little lambs play,
Spring is here; and so 'tis spring—
But not in the old way!

III

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree!
Ere spring was going—ah, spring is gone!
And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,—
Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on.

All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree,
Browned at the edges, turned in a day;
And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me,
And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way!
419

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Identification and basic context

Edna St. Vincent Millay was an American poet and playwright. She was born in Rockland, Maine, United States. She primarily wrote in English. Millay became one of the most popular and influential poets of the early 20th century, often associated with the Harlem Renaissance and the Lost Generation.

Childhood and education

Millay's childhood was marked by her mother's encouragement of her artistic talents. She attended Barnard School for Girls and later Vassar College, where she began to gain recognition for her poetry. Her time at Vassar was formative, exposing her to literary circles and fostering her independent spirit.

Literary trajectory

Millay's career took off with the publication of her long narrative poem "Renascence" in 1917. She quickly became a literary sensation, known for her passionate lyrics and her defiance of convention. She published numerous collections of poetry, including "A Few Figs from Thistles" (1920), "Second April" (1921), and "The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems" (1923), for which she won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. She also wrote several plays.

Works, style, and literary characteristics

Major works include "Renascence" (1917), "A Few Figs from Thistles" (1920), "Second April" (1921), "The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems" (1923), and "Fatal Interview" (1931). Her poetry often explored themes of love, desire, independence, mortality, social injustice, and the passage of time. Millay was a master of traditional forms, particularly the sonnet, which she used to express intense personal emotion and sharp social commentary. Her style is characterized by its musicality, wit, emotional directness, and clarity of language. She was known for her bold, confessional voice and her unapologetic exploration of female sexuality and autonomy.

Cultural and historical context

Millay's work emerged during a period of significant social and cultural change in the United States, including the Jazz Age, the women's suffrage movement, and the Harlem Renaissance. She was a prominent figure in Greenwich Village bohemian circles and became an icon of female independence and artistic freedom.

Personal life

Millay was known for her passionate love affairs and her unconventional lifestyle. Her relationships, including her marriage to Eugen Jan Boissevain, were often sources of inspiration and sometimes turmoil. She struggled with addiction and health issues later in life.

Recognition and reception

Millay achieved immense popularity during her lifetime, becoming one of the best-selling poets in America. She won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923. While her popularity waned somewhat in the mid-20th century, her work has seen a significant resurgence in critical appreciation in recent decades.

Influences and legacy

Millay was influenced by classical poets and the English Romantic tradition. She, in turn, influenced many later poets, particularly women writers who found inspiration in her independence and her unflinching exploration of female experience. Her work continues to be read and admired for its emotional power and its enduring relevance.

Interpretation and critical analysis

Millay's poetry is often analyzed for its feminist themes, its complex treatment of love and desire, and its engagement with social and political issues. Critics have explored her use of form to convey modern sensibility and her position within the literary landscape of her time.

Curiosities and lesser-known aspects

Millay was a charismatic performer of her own poetry and was known for her striking beauty and independent spirit, which captivated many.

Death and memory

Millay died tragically in 1950 at her home, Steepletop, in Austerlitz, New York, likely from a fall down the stairs. Her home has been preserved as a museum and literary center, ensuring her memory and work continue to be celebrated.