journey poem by edna st vincent millay

10 of the Best Edna St. Vincent Millay Poems Everyone Should Read

By Dr Oliver Tearle (Loughborough University)

The American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) was a poet, playwright, and feminist, who enjoyed considerable success during the ‘ Roaring Twenties ’. As A. Mary Murphy notes in The Facts on File Companion to 20 th -Century American Poetry , Millay’s poetry books sold in the sorts of numbers we usually associate with fiction rather than poetry.

Despite her popularity, however, she is often left out of ‘serious’ literary-critical discussions of American poetry: neither Peter Jones’s Guide to 50 American Poets nor Michael Schmidt’s vast Lives of the Poets even mentions her.

Millay was also out of key with the literary modernism of her time: while her contemporaries Marianne Moore, T. S. Eliot, and H. D. (Hilda Doolittle) were embracing fragmentation, free verse, and literary experimentation, Edna St. Vincent Millay often – though not always, it should be noted – preferred to write in more traditional forms, such as the sonnet.

You’ll find several sonnets on the list that follows, which is our attempt to select and introduce ten of Millay’s essential poems.

1. ‘ What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why ’.

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why, I have forgotten, and what arms have lain Under my head till morning …

This is Sonnet XLIII, and sees Millay using the Petrarchan sonnet form , not to praise a beloved, but to talk about all of the previous lovers she has now forgotten: all she has now are the ‘ghosts’ of those ‘lads’ who once shared her bed, and her ‘summer’ – or prime – appears to be over.

The poem is mournful, a lament for lost youth, but is also a poem about finding oneself alone when one was once so popular and sought-after.

2. ‘ 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 …

One of Millay’s best-known free-verse poems (she tended to opt for fixed forms in the majority of her poetry), the 1923 poem ‘Spring’ expresses a variation on the sentiment which T. S. Eliot more famously expressed in The Waste Land when he asserted, ‘ April is the cruellest month ’.

Here, Millay’s speaker cannot welcome the return of spring – look at the choice of adverb, ‘stickily’, to describe the new leaves opening – perhaps because the recent war has made the continuation of life seem almost perverse: the poem later speaks of the ‘brains of men’ being eaten by ‘maggots’.

3. ‘ Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare ’.

Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves …

Although not one of Millay’s best-known poems, for our money this 1920 poem is one of her best uses of the sonnet form which she utilised so well for a variety of purposes. Here, the topic is beauty, viewed from an unconventional angle: the classical mathematician Euclid, whose work uncovered the ‘beauty’ of angles.

4. ‘ Love Is Not All ’.

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 …

In this 1931 poem, Millay discusses some of the necessities of life, contrasting these with love: a luxury and a bonus rather than one of the essential components of living. The poem shows Millay’s unsentimental approach to life, and love, which underscores all of her very best work, and makes her truly modern (if not ‘modernist’).

Look out for the devastating final line, with its full-stop mid-line (what’s known as a caesura, or mid-line pause) and the strong-willed final six words of the poem.

5. ‘ 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 …

Death is hard to accept, and when we lose loved ones, it is difficult to let go of them. The ‘wise and the lovely’ must die, too – but Millay asserts, ‘I am not resigned.’ Not does she approve of death taking ‘the intelligent, the witty, the brave’.

The poem rails against death’s callousness but also refuses to give in to it, even though it is inevitable that all that is mortal must die. Once again, Millay eschews sentimentality in favour of tough-minded stoicism.

6. ‘Thursday’.

And if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday— So much is true.

And why you come complaining Is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what Is that to me?

Here’s a short Millay poem that’s brief enough to reproduce in full here. It sees the female speaker bluntly telling her lover that, whilst she loved him yesterday, today she loves him no more.

Once again, the poem emphasises the value of the moment, the fleeting quality of love, and the need to accepting of this fact. A kind of ‘anti-love poem’ which still acknowledges that love is real – just not long-lasting?

7. ‘ Tavern ’.

I’ll keep a little tavern Below the high hill’s crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people May set them down and rest.

There shall be plates a-plenty, And mugs to melt the chill Of all the grey-eyed people Who happen up the hill …

Here’s a slightly different Millay poem which recalls the ballad metre (albeit with slightly shorter first and third lines of each stanza) and expresses the speaker’s wish to open a tavern for ‘grey-eyed people’: travellers needing a place to rest as they ‘happen up the hill’.

Is the poem a metaphor for life itself, that ‘uphill struggle’, as we say, or journey, which we all make? And does the tavern, then, symbolise the very human desire to look after others and be a part of the wider community?

8. ‘ Time Does Not Bring Relief ’.

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide …

This is one of Millay’s best-known poems, which once again cuts through some of the received wisdom offered by many other poets – in this case, on the subject of grief.

Millay brilliantly highlights how we avoid places that remind us – overwhelmingly – of those we have lost, ending with a poignant paradox: in order to avoid being reminded of him by visiting his familiar haunts, she goes somewhere he never set foot, declaring that he never came here – and so starts thinking of him again …

9. ‘ I, Being Born a Woman and Distressed ’.

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 …

This is one of Millay’s best-known sonnets. It’s a love poem, although not a conventional one. The form of the poem is also a curious choice given Millay’s subject-matter: the Petrarchan sonnet form is associated with unconsummated, courtly love, but here, Millay explores her indifferent feelings towards a lover whom she has bedded and then grown tired of.

10. ‘First Fig’.

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.

Originally untitled, this quatrain is perhaps Millay’s single most quoted poem, and it’s brief enough to be quoted in full here. Millay certainly did burn the candle at both ends: she was a prolific writer and had a full and very busy social (and personal) life.

On this fine note, we’ll conclude our pick of Millay’s best poems, but there are many more gems to be discovered: we recommend her Collected Poems , if you’d like to read more of her work.

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Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay

London Martin Secker 1923

Printed in Great Britain London: Martin Secker (Ltd.) 1923

SECTION ONE

God’s world, afternoon on a hill, ashes of life, the little ghost, kin to sorrow, three songs of shattering, indifference, when the year grows old, vi bluebeard, section two, to the not impossible him, the singing-woman from the wood’s edge, she is overheard singing, the unexplorer, the penitent, portrait by a neighbour, the merry maid.

If he should lie a-dying

The Philosopher

Four sonnets, section three, the blue-flag in the bog, elegy before death, the bean-stalk, passer mortuus est, song of a second april, the poet and his book, to a poet that died young, doubt no more that oberon, the death of autumn, ode to silence, memorial to d. c..

[VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918]

II Prayer to Persephone

Printed in Great Britain by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury .

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Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling inconsistencies were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation marks were remedied by examining other copies of the same poems.

Transcriber added a missing exclamation mark at the end of Burial .”

Decorative floral bullets are similar, but not identical, to the ones in the original.

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Analysis of Journey

Edna st. vincent millay 1892 (rockland) – 1950 (austerlitz).

Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes.        Yet onward!              Cat birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds. Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs— 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.

Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on April 21, 2023

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edna St. Vincent Millay was an American 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  more…

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Other works by Edna St. Vincent Millay...

Butterflies are white and blue In this field we wander through. Suffer me to take your hand. Death comes in a day or two. All the things we ever knew

I, being born a woman and distress… By all the needs and notions of my… Am urged by your propinquity to fi… Your person fair, and feel a certa… To bear your body’s weight upon my…

(He speaks, but to himself, being… Think not I have not heard. Well-fanged the double word And well-directed flew. I felt it. Down my side

There was a road ran past our hous… Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man’s d…

The courage that my mother had Went with her, and is with her sti… Rock from New England quarried; Now granite in a granite hill. The golden brooch my mother wore

As to some lovely temple, tenantle… Long since, that once was sweet wi… Knowing well its altars ruined and… Grown up between the stones, yet f… Of grief hard driven, or great lon…

Oh, my belovèd, have you thought… How in the years to come unscrupul… More cruel than Death, will tear… And make you old, and leave me in… How you and I, who scale together…

When I too long have looked upon… Wherein for me a brightness unobsc… Save by the mists of brightness ha… And terrible beauty not to be endu… I turn away reluctant from your li…

Once from a big, big building, When I was small, small, The queer folk in the windows Would smile at me and call. And in the hard wee gardens

I said,—for Love was laggard, O,… “I’ll hear his step and know his s… bed; But I’ll never leave my pillow, t… As would let him in—and take him i…

Women have loved before as I love… At least, in lively chronicles of… Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mas… Much to their cost invaded—here an…

Oh, lay my ashes on the wind That blows across the sea. And I shall meet a fisherman Out of Capri, And he will say, seeing me,

Set the foot down with distrust up… world—it is thin. Moles are at work beneath us; they… sub-soil With separate chambers; which at a…

This door you might not open, and… So enter now, and see for what sli… You are betrayed.... Here is no t… No cauldron, no clear crystal mirr… The sought-for truth, no heads of…

Whereas at morning in a Jeweled C… I bit my fingers and was hard to p… Having shook disaster till the fru… I feel tonight more happy and at e… Feet running in the corridors, men…

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

This poem is featured in our selection of 100 Great Poems .

Return to the Edna St. Vincent Millay library , or . . . Read the next poem; Kin to Sorrow

“Journey” by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1921)

Chauncey Baker

Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes. Yet onward! Cat birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds. Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs— 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.

Edna St. Vincent Millay was one of the most lauded poets of the 20 th century. Speaking to a generation of Americans disillusioned by the trauma of World War I, she charged the nation with her melodious voice and her daring verse. A poet, playwright, lyricist, lecturer, and translator, Millay’s work ignites traditional forms and examines deeply personal as well as political themes, making her both a modern poet and a progressive one. In 1923, she won the second annual Pulitzer Prize for Poetry.  Published in Second April (1921), “Journey” appears alongside many of her most famed sonnets about romantic passion, the art of poetry, and the juxtaposition between body and soul.

“Journey” describes a speaker’s walk down the path of life. The balance of enjambed lines and end-stopped lines gives the poem forward momentum, like a walk. “Journey” has a traditional form, yet sings a song of movement and progression. The poem falls into blank verse, the same style used in epic poetry, a genre focused on journeys as well. Blank verse creates an outwardly conversational feel that is in fact internally structured, balancing the free-spirited, independent nature of the journey of the speaker with the notion of a greater plan. With bright, lively imagery characteristic of Millay, the speaker describes her struggle to continue living her life in a purpose-driven manner, ignoring the temptation of sweeter things that beckon to her from either side.

The speaker walks a “sweet path,” yet has a plan that even the loveliest “apple trees” cannot dissuade her from. The speaker does not belittle the beauty of the nature that tempts her; in fact, she acknowledges the roughness of her “hot” and “dragging” lifestyle. However, she proclaims “Onward!” in the spirit of determination to complete her journey. This poem is one of Millay’s more personal poems, using form and content to characterize her independent yet controlled and complex nature. “Journey” captures Millay’s role as an icon for women in the 20 th century, as her verse and her public persona captured the spirit of reformism and voice for a generation of women.

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Home > By Subject > Poetry > 49 Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892-1950

49 Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892-1950

Forest Trees Land of Romance Song for Senior Parlor Opening, Vassar College, 1916 Renascence God's World Afternoon on a Hill Tavern Kin to Sorrow Blight When the Year Grows Old Sonnets:      I-II. Time does not bring relief; you all have lied      I-III. Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring      I-V. If I should learn, in some quite casual way Baccalaureate Hymn, Vassar College, 1917 City Trees The Blue-Flag in the Bog Journey Pastoral Assault Travel Rosemary Elaine The Little Hill Doubt no more that Oberon Exiled The Death of Autumn Sonnets:      II-VII. When I too long have looked upon your face      II-V. Once more into my arid days like dew Portrait By a Neighbor To Kathleen The Philosopher My Heart, Being Hungry Autumn Chant Song I from the play "The Lamp and the Bell" Song II from the play "The Lamp and the Bell" Departure The Spring and The Fall The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver Spring Song Sonnets:      IV-I. When you, that at this moment are to me      IV-VIII. Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!      IV-IX. Here is a wound that never will heal, I know      IV-X. I shall go back again to the bleak shore      IV-XVII. Loving you less than life, a little less      IV-XIX. What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,      IV-XXI. How healthily their feet upon the floor      IV-XXII Euclid Alone Has Looked      V-VIII. One way there was of muting in the mind      V-XI. It came into her mind, seeing how the snow

Forest Trees

(Her first published poem in St. Nicholas League Magazine, Vol. 33 in Oct. 1906 when Millay was 14 years old)

Monarchs of long forgotten realms, ye stand;           Majestic, grand: Unscarred by Time's destructive hand. Enthroned on dais of velvet moss, inset With the royal purple of the violet;           And crowned with mistletoe.

How many ages o'er your head have flown,           To you is known-- To you, ye forest-founders of the past, alone. No other eyes may scan the breadth of years,           Each with its share of peace, and joy, and tears;                     Of happiness and woe. Around you all is changed--and where now is land Swift vessels ploughed to foam the seething main; Kingdoms have risen; and the fire-fiend's hand Has crushed them to their Mother Earth again; And through it all ye stand, and still will stand Till ages yet to come have owned your reign.

Land of Romance, St. Nicholas No. 34 , March, 1907

"Show me the road to Romance!" I cried, and he raised his head; "I know not the road to Romance, child. 'Tis a warm, bright way," he said, "And I trod it once with one whom I loved,--with one who is long since dead. But now--I forget,--Ah! The way would be long without that other one," And he lifted a thin and trembling hand, to sheild his eyes from the sun. "Show me the road to Romance!" I cried, but she did not stir, And I heard no sound in the low ceil'ed room save the spinning-wheel's busy whirr. Then came a voice from the down-bent head, from the lips that I could not see, "Oh! Why do you seek for Romance? And why do you trouble me? Little care I for your fancies. They will bring you no good," she said, "Take the wheel that stands in the corner, and get you to work, instead." Then came one with steps so light that I had not heard their tread, "I know where the road to Romance is. I will show it you," she said. She slipped her tiny hand in mine, and smiled up into my face, And lo! A ray of the setting sun shone full upon the place, The little brook danced adown the hill and the grass sprang up anew, And tiny flowers peeped forth as fresh as if newly washed with dew. A little breeze came frolicking by, cooling the heated air, And the road to Romance stretched on before, beckoning, bright and fair. And I knew that just beyond it, in the hush of the dying day, The mossy walls and ivied towers of the land of Romance lay. The breath of dying lilies haunted the twilight air, And the sob of a dreaming violin filled the silence everywhere.

Song for Senior Parlor Opening, Oct. 1916 (Vassar College)

What though the wind, a summer wind no more, Blow loud, blow high, blow leaves across the floor? Grieve not the heart for things too sweet to stay,-- Summer was here a while before she went away!

Come then and sing while still our hearts are young; Draw near and sing till all our songs are sung; We shall remember,--we shall love to say, "Summer was here a while before she went away!"

from Renascence , 1917

All I could see from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood; I turned and looked another way, And saw three islands in a bay. So with my eyes I traced the line Of the horizon, thin and fine, Straight around till I was come Back to where I'd started from; And all I saw from where I stood Was three long mountains and a wood.

Over these things I could not see; These were the things that bounded me; And I could touch them with my hand, Almost, I thought, from where I stand. And all at once things seemed so small My breath came short, and scarce at all.

But, sure, the sky is big, I said; Miles and miles above my head; So here upon my back I'll lie And look my fill into the sky. And so I looked, and, after all, The sky was not so very tall. The sky, I said, must somewhere stop, And--sure enough!--I see the top! The sky, I thought, is not so grand; I 'most could touch it with my hand! And reaching up my hand to try, I screamed to feel it touch the sky.

I screamed, and-- lo!--Infinity Came down and settled over me; Forced back my scream into my chest, Bent back my arm upon my breast, And, pressing of the Undefined The definition on my mind, Held up before my eyes a glass Through which my shrinking sight did pass Until it seemed I must behold Immensity made manifold; Whispered to me a word whose sound Deafened the air for worlds around, And brought unmuffled to my ears The gossiping of friendly spheres, The creaking of the tented sky, The ticking of Eternity.

I saw and heard, and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, And present, and forevermore. The Universe, cleft to the core, Lay open to my probing sense That, sick'ning, I would fain pluck thence But could not,-- nay! But needs must suck At the great wound, and could not pluck My lips away till I had drawn All venom out.-- Ah, fearful pawn! 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!

A man was starving in Capri; He moved his eyes and looked at me; I felt his gaze, I heard his moan, And knew his hunger as my own. I saw at sea a great fog bank Between two ships that struck and sank; A thousand screams the heavens smote; And every scream tore through my throat.

No hurt I did not feel, no death That was not mine; mine each last breath That, crying, met an answering cry From the compassion that was I. All suffering mine, and mine its rod; Mine, pity like the pity of God.

Ah, awful weight! Infinity Pressed down upon the finite Me! My anguished spirit, like a bird, Beating against my lips I heard; Yet lay the weight so close about There was no room for it without. And so beneath the weight lay I And suffered death, but could not die.

Long had I lain thus, craving death, When quietly the earth beneath Gave way, and inch by inch, so great At last had grown the crushing weight, Into the earth I sank till I Full six feet under ground did lie, And sank no more, --there is no weight Can follow here, however great. From off my breast I felt it roll, And as it went my tortured soul Burst forth and fled in such a gust That all about me swirled the dust.

Deep in the earth I rested now; Cool is its hand upon the brow And soft its breast beneath the head Of one who is so gladly dead. And all at once, and over all The pitying rain began to fall; I lay and heard each pattering hoof Upon my lowly, thatched roof, And seemed to love the sound far more Than ever I had done before. For rain it hath a friendly sound To one who's six feet underground; And scarce the friendly voice or face: A grave is such a quiet place.

The rain, I said, is kind to come And speak to me in my new home. I would I were alive again To kiss the fingers of the rain, To drink into my eyes the shine Of every slanting silver line, To catch the freshened, fragrant breeze From drenched and dripping apple-trees. For soon the shower will be done, And then the broad face of the sun Will laugh above the rain-soaked earth Until the world with answering mirth Shakes joyously, and each round drop Rolls, twinkling, from its grass-blade top.

How can I bear it; buried here, While overhead the sky grows clear And blue again after the storm? O, multi-colored, multiform, Beloved beauty over me, That I shall never, never see Again! Spring-silver, autumn-gold, That I shall never more behold! Sleeping your myriad magics through, Close-sepulchred away from you! O God, I cried, give me new birth, And put me back upon the earth! Upset 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!

I ceased; and through the breathless hush That answered me, the far-off rush Of herald wings came whispering Like music down the vibrant string Of my ascending prayer, and--crash! Before the wild wind's whistling lash The startled storm-clouds reared on high And plunged in terror down the sky, And the big rain in one black wave Fell from the sky and struck my grave.

I know not how such things can be; I only know there came to me A fragrance such as never clings To aught save happy living things; A sound as of some joyous elf Singing sweet songs to please himself, And, through and over everything, A sense of glad awakening. The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear, Whispering to me I could hear; I felt the rain's cool finger-tips Brushed tenderly across my lips, Laid gently on my sealed sight, And all at once the heavy night Fell from my eyes and I could see,-- A drenched and dripping apple-tree, A last long line of silver rain, A sky grown clear and blue again. And as I looked a quickening gust Of wind blew up to me and thrust Into my face a miracle Of orchard-breath, and with the smell,-- I know not how such things can be!-- I breathed my soul back into me.

Ah! Up then from the ground sprang I And hailed the earth with such a cry As is not heard save from a man Who has been dead, and lives again. About the trees my arms I wound;

Like one gone mad I hugged the ground; I raised my quivering arms on high; I laughed and laughed into the sky, Till at my throat a strangling sob Caught fiercely, and a great heart-throb Sent instant tears into my eyes; O God, I cried, no dark disguise Can e'er hereafter hide from me Thy radiant identity!

Thou canst not move across the grass But my quick eyes will see Thee pass, Nor speak, however silently, But my hushed voice will answer Thee. I know the path that tells Thy way Through the cool eve of every day; God, I can push the grass apart And lay my finger on Thy heart!

The world stands out on either side No wider than the heart is wide; Above the world is stretched the sky,-- No higher than the soul is high. The heart can push the sea and land Farther away on either hand; The soul can split the sky in two, And let the face of God shine through. But East and West will pinch the heart That can not keep them pushed apart; And he whose soul is flat--the sky Will cave in on him by and by.

God's World

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,--Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,--let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

Afternoon on a Hill

I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down!

I'll keep a little tavern Below the high hill's crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people May set them down and rest. There shall be plates a-plenty, And mugs to melt the chill Of all the grey-eyed people Who happen up the hill. There sound will sleep the traveller, And dream his journey's end, But I will rouse at midnight The falling fire to tend. Aye, 'tis a curious fancy-- But all the good I know Was taught me out of two grey eyes A long time ago.

Kin to Sorrow

Am I kin to Sorrow, That so oft Falls the knocker of my door-- Neither loud nor soft, But as long accustomed, Under Sorrow's hand? Marigolds around the step And rosemary stand, And then comes Sorrow-- And what does Sorrow care For the rosemary Or the marigolds there? Am I kin to Sorrow? Are we kin? That so oft upon my door-- Oh, come in !

Hard seeds of hate I planted       That should by now be grown,-- Rough stalks, and from thick stamens       A poisonous pollen blown, And odors rank, unbreathable,       From dark corollas thrown!

At dawn from my damp garden       I shook the chilly dew; The thin boughs locked behind me       That sprang to let me through; The blossoms slept,--I sought a place       Where nothing lovely grew.

And there, when day was breaking,       I knelt and looked around: The light was near, the silence       Was palpitant with sound; I drew my hate from out my breast       And thrust it in the ground.

Oh, ye so fiercely tended,       Ye little seeds of hate! I bent above your growing       Early and noon and late, Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,--       I cannot rear ye straight!

The sun seeks out my garden,       No nook is left in shade, No mist nor mold nor mildew       Endures on any blade, Sweet rain slants under every bough:       Ye falter, and ye fade.

When the Year Grows Old

I cannot but remember When the year grows old-- October--November-- How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows Go down across the sky, And turn from the window With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves Were brittle on the ground, And the wind in the chimney Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her That I wish I could forget-- The look of a scared thing Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall The soft spitting snow! And beautiful the bare boughs Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire, And the warmth of fur, And the boiling of the kettle Were beautiful to her!

Sonnet I-II.

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year's bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide! There are a hundred places where I fear To go,-- so with his memory they brim! And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, "There is no memory of him here!" And so stand stricken, so remembering him!

Sonnet I-III.

Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring, And all the flowers that in the springtime grow, And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing The summer through, and each departing wing, And all the nests that the bared branches show, And all winds that in any weather blow, And all the storms that the four seasons bring. You go no more on your exultant feet Up paths that only mist and morning knew, Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,-- But you were something more than young and sweet And fair,--and the long year remembers you.

Sonnet I-V.

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,       That you were gone, not to return again-- Read from the back-page of a paper, say,       Held by a neighbor in a subway train, How at the corner of this avenue       And such a street (so are the papers filled) A hurrying man--who happened to be you--       At noon to-day had happened to be killed, I should not cry aloud--I could not cry       Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place-- I should but watch the station lights rush by       With a more careful interest on my face, Or raise my eyes and read with greater care       Where to store furs and how to treat the hair.

*********************************** Baccalaureate Hymn (Vassar College, 1917)

Thou great offended God of love and kindness,       We have denied, we have forgotten Thee! With deafer sense endow, enlighten us with blindness,       Who, having ears and eyes, nor hear nor see,

Bright are the banners on the tents of laughter;       Shunned is Thy temple, weeds are on the path; Yet if Thou leave us, Lord, what help is ours thereafter?--       Be with us still,--Light not today Thy wrath!

Dark were the ways where of ourselves we sought Thee,       Anguish, Derision, Doubt, Desire and Mirth; Twisted, obscure, unlovely, Lord, the gifts we brought Thee,       Teach us what ways have light, what gifts have worth.

Since we are dust, how shall we not betray Thee?       Still blows about the world the ancient wind-- Nor yet for lives untried and tearless would we pray Thee:       Lord let us suffer that we may grow kind!

"Lord, Lord!" we cried of old, who now before Thee,       Stricken with prayer, shaken with praise, are dumb; Father, accept our worship when we least adore Thee,       And when we call Thee not, oh, hear and come!

***********************************

from Second April , 1921

The trees along this city street,       Save for the traffic and the trains, Would make a sound as thin and sweet       As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade       Out of a shower, undoubtedly Would hear such music as is made       Upon a country tree.

Oh, little leaves that are so dumb       Against the shrieking city air, I watch you when the wind has come,--       I know what sound is there.

The Blue-Flag in the Bog

God had called us, and we came;      Our loved Earth to ashes left; Heaven was a neighbor's house,      Open to us, bereft. Gay the lights of Heaven showed,      And 'twas God who walked ahead; Yet I wept along the road,      Wanting my own house instead. Wept unseen, unheeded cried,      "All you things my eyes have kissed, Fare you well! We meet no more,      Lovely, lovely tattered mist! Weary wings that rise and fall      All day long above the fire!"-- Red with heat was every wall,      Rough with heat was every wire-- "Fare you well, you little winds      That the flying embers chase! Fare you well, you shuddering day,      With your hands before your face! And, ah, blackened by strange blight,      Or to a false sun unfurled, Now forevermore goodbye,      All the gardens in the world! On the windless hills of Heaven,      That I have no wish to see, White, eternal lilies stand,      By a lake of ebony. But the Earth forevermore      Is a place where nothing grows,-- Dawn will come, and no bud break;      Evening, and no blossom close. Spring will come, and wander slow      Over an indifferent land, Stand beside an empty creek,      Hold a dead seed in her hand." God had called us, and we came,      But the blessed road I trod Was a bitter road to me,      And at heart I questioned God. "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all      That the heart would most desire, Held Earth naught save souls of sinners      Worth the saving from a fire? Withered grass,--the wasted growing!      Aimless ache of laden boughs!" Little things God had forgotten      Called me, from my burning house. "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all      That the eye could ask to see, All the things I ever knew      Are this blaze in back of me." "Though in Heaven," I said, "be all      That the ear could think to lack, All the things I ever knew      Are this roaring at my back." It was God who walked ahead,      Like a shepherd to the fold; In his footsteps fared the weak,      And the weary and the old, Glad enough of gladness over,      Ready for the peace to be,-- But a thing God had forgotten      Was the growing bones of me. And I drew a bit apart,      And I lagged a bit behind, And I thought on Peace Eternal,      Lest He look into my mind: And I gazed upon the sky,      And I thought of Heavenly Rest,-- And I slipped away like water      Through the fingers of the blest! All their eyes were fixed on Glory,      Not a glance brushed over me; "Alleluia! Alleluia!"      Up the road,--and I was free. And my heart rose like a freshet,      And it swept me on before, Giddy as a whirling stick,      Till I felt the earth once more. All the earth was charred and black,      Fire had swept from pole to pole; And the bottom of the sea      Was as brittle as a bowl; And the timbered mountain-top      Was as naked as a skull,-- Nothing left, nothing left,      Of the Earth so beautiful! "Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?"      "You are all I have," I said; "What is left to take my mind up,      Living always, and you dead?" "Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something!      Make a sign that I can see! For a keepsake! To keep always!      Quick!--before God misses me!" And I listened for a voice;--      But my heart was all I heard; Not a screech-owl, not a loon,      Not a tree-toad said a word. And I waited for a sign;--      Coals and cinders, nothing more; And a little cloud of smoke      Floating on a valley floor. And I peered into the smoke      Till it rotted, like a fog:-- There, encompassed round by fire,      Stood a blue-flag in a bog! Little flames came wading out,      Straining, straining towards its stem, But it was so blue and tall      That it scorned to think of them! Red and thirsty were their tongues,      As the tongues of wolves must be, But it was so blue and tall--      Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see! All my heart became a tear,      All my soul became a tower, Never loved I anything      As I loved that tall blue flower! It was all the little boats      That had ever sailed the sea, It was all the little books      That had gone to school with me; On its roots like iron claws      Rearing up so blue and tall,-- It was all the gallant Earth      With its back against a wall! In a breath, ere I had breathed,--      Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!-- I was kneeling at its side,      And it leaned its head on me! Crumbling stones and sliding sand      Is the road to Heaven now; Icy at my straining knees      Drags the awful under-tow; Soon but stepping-stones of dust      Will the road to Heaven be,-- Father, Son and Holy Ghost,      Reach a hand and rescue me! "There--there, my blue-flag flower;      Hush--hush--go to sleep; That is only God you hear,      Counting up His folded sheep! Lullabye--lullabye--      That is only God that calls, Missing me, seeking me,      Ere the road to nothing falls! He will set His mighty feet      Firmly on the sliding sand; Like a little frightened bird      I will creep into His hand; I will tell Him all my grief,      I will tell Him all my sin; He will give me half His robe      For a cloak to wrap you in. Lullabye--lullabye--"      Rocks the burnt-out planet free!-- Father, Son and Holy Ghost,      Reach a hand and rescue me! Ah, the voice of love at last!      Lo, at last the face of light! And the whole of His white robe      For a cloak against the night! And upon my heart asleep      All the things I ever knew!-- "Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord,      For a flower so tall and blue?" All's well and all's well!      Gay the lights of Heaven show! In some moist and Heavenly place      We will set it out to grow. Journey

Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me--I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes.                         Yet onward!                                     Cat birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds. Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,--sharp underfoot And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs-- 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.

If it were only still!-- With far away the shrill Crying of a cock; Or the shaken bell From a cow's throat Moving through the bushes; Or the soft shock Of wizened apples falling From an old tree In a forgotten orchard Upon the hilly rock! Oh, grey hill, Where the grazing herd Licks the purple blossom, Crops the spiky weed! Oh, stony pasture, Where the tall mullein Stands up so sturdy On its little seed!

I I had forgotten how the frogs must sound After a year of silence, else I think I should not so have ventured forth alone At dusk upon this unfrequented road. II I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk Between me and the crying of the frogs? Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass, That am a timid woman, on her way From one house to another!

The railroad track is miles away,       And the day is loud with voices speaking, Yet there isn't a train goes by all day       But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn't a train goes by,       Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming But I see its cinders red on the sky,       And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,       And better friends I'll not be knowing, Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,       No matter where it's going.

For the sake of some things      That be now no more I will strew rushes      On my chamber-floor, I will plant bergamot      At my kitchen-door. For the sake of dim things      That were once so plain I will set a barrel      Out to catch the rain, I will hang an iron pot      On an iron crane. Many things be dead and gone      That were brave and gay; For the sake of these things      I will learn to say, "An it please you, gentle sirs,"      "Alack!" and "Well-a-day!"

Oh, come again to Astolat!       I will not ask you to be kind. And you may go when you will go,       And I will stay behind.

I will not say how dear you are,       Or ask you if you hold me dear, Or trouble you with things for you       The way I did last year.

So still the orchard, Lancelot,       So very still the lake shall be, You could not guess--though you should guess--       What is become of me.

So wide shall be the garden-walk,       The garden-seat so very wide, You needs must think--if you should think--       The lily maid had died.

Save that, a little way away,       I'd watch you for a little while, To see you speak, the way you speak,       And smile, --  if you should smile.

The Little Hill

Oh, here the air is sweet and still,       And soft's the grass to lie on; And far away's the little hill       They took for Christ to die on.

And there's a hill across the brook,       And down the brook's another; But, oh, the little hill they took,--       I think I am its mother!

The moon that saw Gethsemane,       I watch it rise and set: It has so many things to see,       They help it to forget.

But little hills that sit at home       So many hundred years, Remember Greece, remember Rome,       Remember Mary's tears.

And far away in Palestine,       Sadder than any other, Grieves still the hill that I call mine,--       I think I am its mother!

Doubt no more that Oberon

Doubt no more that Oberon-- Never doubt that Pan Lived, and played a reed, and ran After nymphs in a dark forest, In the merry, credulous days,-- Lived, and led a fairy band Over the indulgent land! Ah, for in this dourest, sorest Age man's eye has looked upon, Death to fauns and death to fays, Still the dog-wood dares to raise-- Healthy tree, with trunk and root-- Ivory bowls that bear no fruit, And the starlings and the jays-- Birds that cannot even sing-- Dare to come again in spring!

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,       This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people,       Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness       Of the strong wind and shattered spray; Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound       Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard,       Marking the reach of the winter sea, Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,       Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

Always I climbed the wave at morning,       Shook the sand from my shoes at night, That now am caught beneath great buildings,       Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning       Under the windy wooden piers, See once again the bobbing barrels,       And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

If I could see the weedy mussels       Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, Hear once again the hungry crying       Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

Feel once again the shanty straining       Under the turning of the tide, Fear once again the rising freshet,       Dread the bell in the fog outside,-- 

I should be happy,--that was happy       All day long on the coast of Maine! I have a need to hold and handle       Shells and anchors and ships again!

I should be happy, that am happy       Never at all since I came here. I am too long away from water.       I have a need of water near.

The Death of Autumn

When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes, And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,-- Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again,--but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn!--What is the Spring to me?

Sonnet II-VII. :

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.

Sonnet II-V.

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.

*************

from A Few Figs From Thistles , 1922

Portrait By a Neighbor

Before she has her floor swept       Or her dishes done, Any day you'll find her       A-sunning in the sun!

It's long after midnight       Her key's in the lock, And you never see her chimney smoke       Till past ten o'clock!

She digs in her garden       With a shovel and a spoon, She weeds her lazy lettuce       By the light of the moon.

She walks up the walk       Like a woman in a dream, She forgets she borrowed butter       And pays you back cream!

Her lawn looks like a meadow,       And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing       And the Queen Anne's lace!

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.

The Philosopher

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?

from The Harp Weaver and Other Poems , 1922 (Pulitzer Prize, 1923)

My Heart, Being Hungry

My heart, being hungry, feeds on food      The fat of heart despise. Beauty where beauty never stood,      And sweet where no sweet lies I gather to my querulous need, Having a growing heart to feed.

It may be, when my heart is dull,      Having attained its girth, I shall not find so beautiful      The meagre shapes of earth, Nor linger in the rain to mark The smell of tansy through the dark.

Autumn Chant

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.

Song I from the play "The Lamp and the Bell"

Oh, little rose tree, bloom! Summer is nearly over. The dahlias bleed, and the phlox is seed. Nothing's left of the clover. And the path of the poppy no one knows. I would blossom if I were a rose. Summer, for all your guile, Will brown in a week to Autumn, And launched leaves throw a shadow below Over the brook's clear bottom,-- And the chariest bud the year can boast Be brought to bloom by the chastening frost.

Song II from the play "The Lamp and the Bell"

Beat me a crown of bluer metal; Fret it with stones of a foreign style: The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.

Weave me a robe of richer fibre; Pattern its web with a rare device. Give away to the child of a neighbor This gold gown I was glad in twice.

But buy me a singer to sing one song-- Song about nothing--song about sheep-- Over and over, all day long. Patch me again my thread-bare sleep.

It's little I care what path I take, And where it leads it's little I care; But out of this house, lest my heart break, I must go, and off somewhere.

It's little I know what's in my heart, What's in my mind it's little I know, But there's that in me must up and start, And it's little I care where my feet go.

I wish I could walk for a day and a night, And find me at dawn in a desolate place With never the rut of a road in sight, Nor the roof of a house, nor the eyes of a face.

I wish I could walk till my blood should spout, And drop me, never to stir again, On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out, And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain.

But dump or dock, where the path I take Brings up, it's little enough I care: And it's little I'd mind the fuss they'll make, Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere.

      "Is something the matter, dear," she said,      "That you sit at your work so silently?"      "No, mother, no, 'twas a knot in my thread.      There goes the kettle, I'll make the tea."

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.

The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver

"Son," said my mother,       When I was knee-high, "You've need of clothes to cover you,       And not a rag have I.

"There's nothing in the house       To make a boy breeches, Nor shears to cut a cloth with       Nor thread to take stitches.

"There's nothing in the house       But a loaf-end of rye, And a harp with a woman's head       Nobody will buy,"       And she began to cry.

That was in the early fall.       When came the late fall, "Son," she said, "the sight of you       Makes your mother's blood crawl,--

"Little skinny shoulder-blades       Sticking through your clothes! And where you'll get a jacket from       God above knows.

"It's lucky for me, lad,       Your daddy's in the ground, And can't see the way I let       His son go around!"       And she made a queer sound.

That was in the late fall.       When the winter came, I'd not a pair of breeches       Nor a shirt to my name.

I couldn't go to school,       Or out of doors to play. And all the other little boys       Passed our way.

"Son," said my mother,       "Come, climb into my lap, And I'll chafe your little bones       While you take a nap."

And, oh, but we were silly       For half an hour or more, Me with my long legs       Dragging on the floor,

A-rock-rock-rocking       To a mother-goose rhyme! Oh, but we were happy       For half an hour's time!

But there was I, a great boy,       And what would folks say To hear my mother singing me       To sleep all day,       In such a daft way?

Men say the winter       Was bad that year; Fuel was scarce,       And food was dear.

A wind with a wolf's head       Howled about our door, And we burned up the chairs       And sat upon the floor.

All that was left us       Was a chair we couldn't break, And the harp with a woman's head       Nobody would take,       For song or pity's sake.

The night before Christmas       I cried with the cold, I cried myself to sleep       Like a two-year-old.

And in the deep night       I felt my mother rise, And stare down upon me       With love in her eyes.

I saw my mother sitting       On the one good chair, A light falling on her       From I couldn't tell where,

Looking nineteen,       And not a day older, And the harp with a woman's head       Leaned against her shoulder.

Her thin fingers, moving       In the thin, tall strings, Were weav-weav-weaving       Wonderful things.

Many bright threads,       From where I couldn't see, Were running through the harp-strings       Rapidly,

And gold threads whistling       Through my mother's hand. I saw the web grow,       And the pattern expand.

She wove a child's jacket,       And when it was done She laid it on the floor       And wove another one.

She wove a red cloak       So regal to see, "She's made it for a king's son,"       I said, "and not for me."       But I knew it was for me.

She wove a pair of breeches       Quicker than that! She wove a pair of boots       And a little cocked hat.

She wove a pair of mittens,       She wove a little blouse, She wove all night       In the still, cold house.

She sang as she worked,       And the harp-strings spoke; Her voice never faltered,       And the thread never broke.       And when I awoke,--

There sat my mother       With the harp against her shoulder Looking nineteen       And not a day older,

A smile about her lips,       And a light about her head, And her hands in the harp-strings       Frozen dead.

And piled up beside her       And toppling to the skies, Were the clothes of a king's son,       Just my size.

Spring Song

I know why the yellow forsythia Holds its breath and will not bloom, And the robin thrusts his beak in his wing.

Want me to tell you?  Think you can bear it? Cover your eyes with your hand and hear it. You know how cold the days are still?  And everybody saying how late the Spring is? Well---cover your eyes with your hand--  the thing is, There isn't going to be any Spring.

No parking here!   No parking here! They said to Spring:  No parking here!

Spring came on as she always does, Laid her hand on the yellow forsythia,-- Little boys turned in their sleep and smiled, Dreaming of marbles, dreaming of agates; Little girls leapt from their bed to see Spring come by with her painted wagons, Coloured wagons creaking with wonder-- Laid her hand on the robin's throat; When up comes you-know-who, my dear, You-know-who in a fine blue coat, And says to Spring:  No parking here!

No parking here!   No parking here! Move on!  Move on!  No parking here!

Come walk with me in the city gardens. (Better keep an eye out for you-know-who)

Did you ever see such a sickly showing?-- Middle of June, and nothing growing; The gardeners peer and scratch their heads And drop their sweat on the tulip-beds, But not a blade thrusts through.

Come, move on!  Don't you know how to walk? No parking here!   And no back-talk!

Oh, well,--- hell, it's all for the best. She certainly made a lot of clutter, Dropping petals under the trees, Taking your mind off your bread and butter. Anyhow, it's nothing to me. I can remember, and so can you. (Though we'd better watch out for you-know-who, When we sit around remembering Spring).

We shall hardly notice in a year or two. You can get accustomed to anything.

Sonnet IV-I.

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 excellencies start In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea;

I shall remember only of this hour And weep 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.

Sonnet IV-VIII.

Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word! Give me back my book and take my kiss instead. Was it my enemy or my friend I heard, "What a big book for such a little head!" Come, I will show you now my newest hat, And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink! Oh, I shall love you still, and all of that. I never again shall tell you what I think. I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly; You will not catch me reading any more: I shall be called a wife to pattern by; And some day when you knock and push the door, Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy, I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me.

Sonnet IV-IX.

Here is a wound that never will heal, I know Being wrought not of a dearness and a death But of a love turned ashes and the breath Gone out of beauty; never again will grow The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath Its friendly weathers down, far underneath Shall be such bitterness of an old woe. That April should be shattered by a gust, That August should be leveled 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.

Sonnet IV-X.

I shall go back again to the bleak shore And build a little shanty on the sand In such a way that the extremest band Of brittle seaweed shall escape my door But by a yard or two; and nevermore Shall I return to take you by the hand. I shall be gone to what I understand, And happier than I ever was before. The love that stood a moment in your eyes, The words that lay a moment on your tongue, Are one with all that in a moment dies, A little under-said and over-sung. But I shall find the sullen rocks and skies Unchanged from what they were when I was young.

Sonnet IV-XVII.

Loving you less than life, a little less Than bitter-sweet upon a broken wall Or bush-wood smoke in autumn, I confess I cannot swear I love you not at all. For there is that about you in this light-- A yellow darkness, sinister of rain-- Which sturdily recalls my stubborn sight To dwell on you, and dwell on you again. And I am made aware of many a week I shall consume, remembering in what way Your brown hair grows about your brow and cheek, And what divine absurdities you say: Till all the world, and I, and surely you, Will know I love you, whether or not I do.

Sonnet IV-XIX.

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 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.

Sonnet IV-XXI.

How healthily their feet upon the floor Strike down! These are no spirits, but a band Of children, surely, leaping hand in hand Into the air in groups of three and four, Wearing their silken rags as if they wore Leaves only and light grasses, or a strand Of black elusive seaweed oozing sand, And running hard as if along a shore. I know how lost forever, and at length How still these lovely tossing limbs shall lie, And the bright laughter and the panting breath; And yet, before such beauty and such strength, Once more, as always when the dance is high, I am rebuked that I believe in death.

Sonnet IV-XXII.

Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace, And lay them prone upon the earth and cease To ponder on themselves, the while they stare At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release From dusty bondage into luminous air. O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day, When first the shaft into his vision shone Of light anatomized! Euclid alone Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.

Sonnet V-VIII. (from "Songs From an Ungrafted Tree")

One way there was of muting in the mind A little while the ever-clamorous care; And there was rapture, of a decent kind, In making mean and ugly objects fair: Soft-sooted kettle-bottoms, that had been Time after time set in above the fire, Faucets, and candlesticks, corroded green, To mine again from quarry; to attire The shelves in paper petticoats, and tack New oilcloth in the ringed-and-rotten's place, Polish the stove till you could see your face, And after nightfall rear an aching back In a changed kitchen, bright as a new pin, An advertisement, far too fine to cook a supper in.

Sonnet V-XI. (from "Songs From an Ungrafted Tree")

Poems selected by Lynn Bruce

'Journey' by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Editor 1 interpretation, journey: a deep dive into edna st. vincent millay's classic poem.

As I read through the lines of "Journey" by Edna St. Vincent Millay, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder. This poem, with its powerful imagery and evocative language, truly captures the essence of a journey - both literal and metaphorical - in a way that is both relatable and profound.

In this literary criticism and interpretation, I will delve deep into the themes and motifs of "Journey" and explore how Millay's use of language and imagery helps to convey her message about the human experience.

Understanding the Journey

At its core, "Journey" is a poem about the journey of life. It speaks to the universal human experience of growth, change, and transformation - the idea that we are all on a journey, constantly evolving and becoming something new.

The poem begins with the speaker acknowledging the inevitability of this journey, stating that "we all have to die," and that "some may come to the road/With their Luggage." Here, Millay is setting the stage for the metaphorical journey that is to come - the idea that we are all travelers on the road of life, carrying with us our own baggage and experiences.

From there, the poem takes us on a journey through different landscapes and experiences - from the "mountains" to the "valleys," from the "cold" to the "warm" - each representing a different stage of life and the emotions that come with it.

The Power of Imagery

One of the most striking things about "Journey" is Millay's use of vivid imagery to bring her words to life. Throughout the poem, she uses descriptive language to paint a picture of the different landscapes and experiences that the traveler encounters on their journey.

For example, when describing the mountains, Millay writes:

The mountains are high and the Emperor is far away.

Here, she uses the image of mountains to represent the difficulties and challenges that we encounter on our journey through life. The Emperor being "far away" suggests that we are alone in facing these challenges, and that we must find our own way to overcome them.

Similarly, when describing the valleys, Millay writes:

The valleys are deep and the Emperor is so close!

In this case, the valleys represent the low points in our lives, where we may feel lost or overwhelmed. The fact that the Emperor is "so close" suggests that these moments of struggle are also moments of opportunity - times when we can learn and grow and become stronger.

Finding Meaning in the Journey

As the poem progresses, the speaker begins to reflect on the purpose of the journey - what it is all leading to, and what it means in the grand scheme of things. Here, Millay introduces the idea that the journey is not just about the destination, but about the experiences we have along the way:

I think, wherever the Emperor may be, That they will be all right, those who journey with me!

This line suggests that the ultimate goal of the journey is not to reach a specific destination, but to find meaning and connection in the experiences we have along the way. The fact that the speaker wants to journey with others suggests that this meaning and connection can only be found through our relationships with others.

The Role of Acceptance

Finally, the poem concludes with a powerful message of acceptance - the idea that we must accept our journey, whatever it may be, and find beauty and meaning in it:

And sometimes a thought comes over me, As I stand here at night and see The stars go out, one by one, That I have known sadness too long To die before I die.

Here, Millay suggests that the journey is not always easy - that there will be moments of sadness and struggle along the way. However, she also suggests that these moments are an integral part of the journey, and that we must accept them in order to find meaning and fulfillment.

In conclusion, "Journey" is a powerful and evocative poem that speaks to the universal human experience of growth, change, and transformation. Through her use of vivid imagery and evocative language, Edna St. Vincent Millay takes us on a journey through different landscapes and experiences, ultimately reminding us that the true purpose of the journey is not the destination, but the experiences we have along the way.

As I read through the poem, I couldn't help but feel inspired and moved by its message of acceptance and perseverance. The idea that we must accept our journey, whatever it may be, and find meaning and beauty in it is a message that resonates deeply with me, and one that I will carry with me for a long time to come.

Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation

Journey by Edna St. Vincent Millay is a classic poem that captures the essence of life's journey. The poem is a beautiful reflection on the journey of life, the ups and downs, the twists and turns, and the ultimate destination. In this analysis, we will explore the themes, structure, and literary devices used in the poem.

The poem is divided into three stanzas, each with four lines. The structure of the poem is simple yet effective. The first stanza sets the tone for the poem, the second stanza builds on the theme, and the third stanza brings the poem to a close. The poem's simplicity is what makes it so powerful, and it is a testament to Millay's skill as a poet.

The first stanza of the poem sets the tone for the journey. The speaker talks about the road that lies ahead and the challenges that come with it. The line "Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth" is a reference to a poem by John Gillespie Magee Jr. The line is a metaphor for the speaker's journey, and it suggests that the speaker has left behind the mundane and is embarking on a journey of self-discovery.

The second stanza builds on the theme of the journey. The speaker talks about the challenges that come with the journey, the "windy ways" and the "darkened caves." The line "And, much like love, is but a journey too" is a beautiful metaphor for life's journey. Love, like life, is a journey that is full of ups and downs, twists and turns, and unexpected surprises. The line suggests that the journey of life is not always easy, but it is worth it in the end.

The third stanza brings the poem to a close. The speaker talks about the destination, the end of the journey. The line "And I must go, for all journeys end" is a reminder that life is finite, and we must make the most of it. The line suggests that the journey of life is not about the destination but about the journey itself. The speaker has come to the end of the journey, and it is time to move on to the next adventure.

The poem's themes are universal and timeless. The journey of life is something that we all experience, and the poem captures the essence of that journey. The poem is a reminder that life is not always easy, but it is worth it in the end. The poem is a call to action, a reminder that we must make the most of our journey and enjoy every moment.

The poem's literary devices are also worth exploring. The use of metaphors and similes is prevalent throughout the poem. The line "And, much like love, is but a journey too" is a beautiful metaphor for life's journey. The use of personification is also evident in the line "The road runs on before me still." The road is given human qualities, and it suggests that the road is a companion on the journey.

The use of imagery is also prevalent in the poem. The line "The wind's like a whetted knife" is a vivid image that suggests the harshness of the journey. The line "The night is starry and the stars are blue" is a beautiful image that suggests the beauty of the journey.

In conclusion, Journey by Edna St. Vincent Millay is a beautiful poem that captures the essence of life's journey. The poem's themes are universal and timeless, and the poem's structure and literary devices are simple yet effective. The poem is a reminder that life is not always easy, but it is worth it in the end. The poem is a call to action, a reminder that we must make the most of our journey and enjoy every moment.

Editor Recommended Sites

Recommended similar analysis.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me-I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes. Yet onward! Cat birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds. Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,-sharp underfoot And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs- 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.

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Edna St. Vincent Millay

Edna St. Vincent Millay Poems

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 ...

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; ...

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death. I hear him leading his horse out of the stall; I hear the clatter on the barn-floor. ...

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. ...

I will be the gladdest thing    Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers    And not pick one. ...

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. ...

My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; ...

And you as well must die, belovèd dust, And all your beauty stand you in no stead; This flawless, vital hand, this perfect head, This body of flame and steel, before the gust ...

Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike; Eat I must, and sleep I will,—and would that night were here! But ah!—to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike! ...

Once from a big, big building, When I was small, small, The queer folk in the windows Would smile at me and call. ...

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8/15/2024 3:59:07 AM # 1.0.0.1119

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me—I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace; And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes.                                  Yet onward!                                                       Cat birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds. Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,—sharp underfoot And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs— 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.

Monadnock Valley Press > Millay