Great poems

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Sonnet 05: If I Should Learn, In Some Quite Casual Way

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

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,

The Leaf And The Tree

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

Here, I think, is the heart's grief:
The tree, no mightier than the leaf,
Makes firm its root and spreads it crown
And stands; but in the end comes down.
That airy top no boy could climb

If I Should Learn, In Some Quite Casual Way

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

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,

Pity Me Not Because The Light Of Day

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

Pity me not because the light of day
At close of day no longer walks the sky;
Pity me not for beauties passed away
From field and thicket as the the year goes by;

Elegy Before Death

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

There will be rose and rhododendron
When you are dead and under ground;
Still will be heard from white syringas
Heavy with bees, a sunny sound;

Ode To Silence

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

Aye, but she?
Your other sister and my other soul
Grave Silence, lovelier
Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her?

The Suicide

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thus I to Life, and ceased, and slightly smiled,
Looking at nothing; and my thin dreams filed
Before me one by one till once again
I set new words unto an old refrain:

The Ballad Of The Harp-Weaver

© Edna St. Vincent Millay

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

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.

I Hardly Remember

I hardly remember your voice, but the pain of you
floats in some remote current of my blood.
I carry you in my depths, trapped in the sludge
like one of those corpses the sea refuses to give up.

To My Friends

Yes, my friends!--that happier times have been
Than the present, none can contravene;
That a race once lived of nobler worth;
And if ancient chronicles were dumb,

To Astronomers

Prate not to me so much of suns and of nebulous bodies;
Think ye Nature but great, in that she gives thee to count?
Though your object may be the sublimest that space holds within it,
Yet, my good friends, the sublime dwells not in the regions of space.