Poems begining by T
/ page 817 of 916 /
The Little Hill
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
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.
To Those Without Pity
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
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.
To The Not Impossible Him
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
How shall I know, unless I go
To Cairo and Cathay,
Whether or not this blessed spot
Is blest in every way?
The Concert
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
You and I have nothing to do with music.
We may not make of music a filigree frame,
Within which you and I,
Tenderly glad we came,
Sit smiling, hand in hand.
Three Songs Of Shattering
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing mattered.
The Little Ghost
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is highhigher than most
And the green gate was locked.
To Kathleen
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
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;
Think Not, Not For A Moment Let Your Mind
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
Think not, not for a moment let your mind,
Wearied with thinking, doze upon the thought
That the work's done and the long day behind,
And beauty, since 'tis paid for, can be bought.
Thursday
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
AND if I loved you Wednesday,
Well, what is that to you?
I do not love you Thursday
So much is true.
The Fawn
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
Surely his mother had never said, "Lie here
Till I return," so spotty and plain to see
On the green moss lay he.
His eyes had opened; he considered me.
The Plaid Dress
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
No more uncoloured than unmade,
I fear, can be this garment that I may not doff;
Confession does not strip it off,
To send me homeward eased and bare;
The Curse
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
Oh, lay my ashes on the wind
That blows across the sea.
And I shall meet a fisherman
Out of Capri,
The Goose-Girl
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
Spring rides no horses down the hill,
But comes on foot, a goose-girl still.
And all the loveliest things there be
Come simply, so, it seems to me.
The Snow Storm
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
No hawk hangs over in this air:
The urgent snow is everywhere.
The wing adroiter than a sail
Must lean away from such a gale,
To A Poet That Died Young
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
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.
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
Two Sonnets In Memory
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
(Nicola Sacco -- Bartolomeo Vanzetti)
Executed August 23, 1927
I
The Philosopher
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
And what are you that, wanting you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?
The Unexplorer
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother onceshe said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milk-man's door.
(That's why I have not travelled more.)
The Dream
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
Love, if I weep it will not matter,
And if you laugh I shall not care;
Foolish am I to think about it,
But it is good to feel you there.
