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diff --git a/old/109.txt b/old/109.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fd98403 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/109.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1626 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Renascence and Other Poems, by Edna St. Vincent Millay + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Renascence and Other Poems + +Author: Edna St. Vincent Millay + +Release Date: June 19, 2008 [EBook #109] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RENASCENCE AND OTHER POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Alan Light. HTML version by Al Haines. + + + + + + + + + +Renascence and Other Poems + + +by + +Edna St. Vincent Millay + + + + + Contents: + + + + Renascence + All I could see from where I stood + + Interim + The room is full of you!--As I came in + + The Suicide + "Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more! + + God's World + O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! + + Afternoon on a Hill + I will be the gladdest thing + + Sorrow + Sorrow like a ceaseless rain + + Tavern + I'll keep a little tavern + + Ashes of Life + Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike; + + The Little Ghost + I knew her for a little ghost + + Kin to Sorrow + Am I kin to Sorrow, + + Three Songs of Shattering + + I + The first rose on my rose-tree + + II + Let the little birds sing; + + III + All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree! + + The Shroud + Death, I say, my heart is bowed + + The Dream + Love, if I weep it will not matter, + + Indifference + I said,--for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,-- + + Witch-Wife + She is neither pink nor pale, + + Blight + Hard seeds of hate I planted + + When the Year Grows Old + I cannot but remember + + Sonnets + + I + Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,--no, + + II + Time does not bring relief; you all have lied + + III + Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring, + + IV + Not in this chamber only at my birth-- + + V + If I should learn, in some quite casual way, + + VI Bluebeard + This door you might not open, and you did; + + + + + Renascence and Other Poems + + + + + Renascence + + + 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. + + + + + Interim + + + The room is full of you!--As I came in + And closed the door behind me, all at once + A something in the air, intangible, + Yet stiff with meaning, struck my senses sick!-- + + Sharp, unfamiliar odors have destroyed + Each other room's dear personality. + The heavy scent of damp, funereal flowers,-- + The very essence, hush-distilled, of Death-- + Has strangled that habitual breath of home + Whose expiration leaves all houses dead; + And wheresoe'er I look is hideous change. + Save here. Here 'twas as if a weed-choked gate + Had opened at my touch, and I had stepped + Into some long-forgot, enchanted, strange, + Sweet garden of a thousand years ago + And suddenly thought, "I have been here before!" + + You are not here. I know that you are gone, + And will not ever enter here again. + And yet it seems to me, if I should speak, + Your silent step must wake across the hall; + If I should turn my head, that your sweet eyes + Would kiss me from the door.--So short a time + To teach my life its transposition to + This difficult and unaccustomed key!-- + The room is as you left it; your last touch-- + A thoughtless pressure, knowing not itself + As saintly--hallows now each simple thing; + Hallows and glorifies, and glows between + The dust's grey fingers like a shielded light. + + There is your book, just as you laid it down, + Face to the table,--I cannot believe + That you are gone!--Just then it seemed to me + You must be here. I almost laughed to think + How like reality the dream had been; + Yet knew before I laughed, and so was still. + That book, outspread, just as you laid it down! + Perhaps you thought, "I wonder what comes next, + And whether this or this will be the end"; + So rose, and left it, thinking to return. + + Perhaps that chair, when you arose and passed + Out of the room, rocked silently a while + Ere it again was still. When you were gone + Forever from the room, perhaps that chair, + Stirred by your movement, rocked a little while, + Silently, to and fro. . . + + And here are the last words your fingers wrote, + Scrawled in broad characters across a page + In this brown book I gave you. Here your hand, + Guiding your rapid pen, moved up and down. + Here with a looping knot you crossed a "t", + And here another like it, just beyond + These two eccentric "e's". You were so small, + And wrote so brave a hand! + How strange it seems + That of all words these are the words you chose! + And yet a simple choice; you did not know + You would not write again. If you had known-- + But then, it does not matter,--and indeed + If you had known there was so little time + You would have dropped your pen and come to me + And this page would be empty, and some phrase + Other than this would hold my wonder now. + Yet, since you could not know, and it befell + That these are the last words your fingers wrote, + There is a dignity some might not see + In this, "I picked the first sweet-pea to-day." + To-day! Was there an opening bud beside it + You left until to-morrow?--O my love, + The things that withered,--and you came not back! + That day you filled this circle of my arms + That now is empty. (O my empty life!) + That day--that day you picked the first sweet-pea,-- + And brought it in to show me! I recall + With terrible distinctness how the smell + Of your cool gardens drifted in with you. + I know, you held it up for me to see + And flushed because I looked not at the flower, + But at your face; and when behind my look + You saw such unmistakable intent + You laughed and brushed your flower against my lips. + (You were the fairest thing God ever made, + I think.) And then your hands above my heart + Drew down its stem into a fastening, + And while your head was bent I kissed your hair. + I wonder if you knew. (Beloved hands! + Somehow I cannot seem to see them still. + Somehow I cannot seem to see the dust + In your bright hair.) What is the need of Heaven + When earth can be so sweet?--If only God + Had let us love,--and show the world the way! + Strange cancellings must ink th' eternal books + When love-crossed-out will bring the answer right! + That first sweet-pea! I wonder where it is. + It seems to me I laid it down somewhere, + And yet,--I am not sure. I am not sure, + Even, if it was white or pink; for then + 'Twas much like any other flower to me, + Save that it was the first. I did not know, + Then, that it was the last. If I had known-- + But then, it does not matter. Strange how few, + After all's said and done, the things that are + Of moment. + Few indeed! When I can make + Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! + "I had you and I have you now no more." + There, there it dangles,--where's the little truth + That can for long keep footing under that + When its slack syllables tighten to a thought? + Here, let me write it down! I wish to see + Just how a thing like that will look on paper! + + "*I had you and I have you now no more*." + + O little words, how can you run so straight + Across the page, beneath the weight you bear? + How can you fall apart, whom such a theme + Has bound together, and hereafter aid + In trivial expression, that have been + So hideously dignified?--Would God + That tearing you apart would tear the thread + I strung you on! Would God--O God, my mind + Stretches asunder on this merciless rack + Of imagery! O, let me sleep a while! + Would I could sleep, and wake to find me back + In that sweet summer afternoon with you. + Summer? 'Tis summer still by the calendar! + How easily could God, if He so willed, + Set back the world a little turn or two! + Correct its griefs, and bring its joys again! + + We were so wholly one I had not thought + That we could die apart. I had not thought + That I could move,--and you be stiff and still! + That I could speak,--and you perforce be dumb! + I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woof + In some firm fabric, woven in and out; + Your golden filaments in fair design + Across my duller fibre. And to-day + The shining strip is rent; the exquisite + Fine pattern is destroyed; part of your heart + Aches in my breast; part of my heart lies chilled + In the damp earth with you. I have been torn + In two, and suffer for the rest of me. + What is my life to me? And what am I + To life,--a ship whose star has guttered out? + A Fear that in the deep night starts awake + Perpetually, to find its senses strained + Against the taut strings of the quivering air, + Awaiting the return of some dread chord? + + Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor; + All else were contrast,--save that contrast's wall + Is down, and all opposed things flow together + Into a vast monotony, where night + And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life, + Are synonyms. What now--what now to me + Are all the jabbering birds and foolish flowers + That clutter up the world? You were my song! + Now, let discord scream! You were my flower! + Now let the world grow weeds! For I shall not + Plant things above your grave--(the common balm + Of the conventional woe for its own wound!) + Amid sensations rendered negative + By your elimination stands to-day, + Certain, unmixed, the element of grief; + I sorrow; and I shall not mock my truth + With travesties of suffering, nor seek + To effigy its incorporeal bulk + In little wry-faced images of woe. + + I cannot call you back; and I desire + No utterance of my immaterial voice. + I cannot even turn my face this way + Or that, and say, "My face is turned to you"; + I know not where you are, I do not know + If Heaven hold you or if earth transmute, + Body and soul, you into earth again; + But this I know:--not for one second's space + Shall I insult my sight with visionings + Such as the credulous crowd so eager-eyed + Beholds, self-conjured, in the empty air. + Let the world wail! Let drip its easy tears! + My sorrow shall be dumb! + + --What do I say? + God! God!--God pity me! Am I gone mad + That I should spit upon a rosary? + Am I become so shrunken? Would to God + I too might feel that frenzied faith whose touch + Makes temporal the most enduring grief; + Though it must walk a while, as is its wont, + With wild lamenting! Would I too might weep + Where weeps the world and hangs its piteous wreaths + For its new dead! Not Truth, but Faith, it is + That keeps the world alive. If all at once + Faith were to slacken,--that unconscious faith + Which must, I know, yet be the corner-stone + Of all believing,--birds now flying fearless + Across would drop in terror to the earth; + Fishes would drown; and the all-governing reins + Would tangle in the frantic hands of God + And the worlds gallop headlong to destruction! + + O God, I see it now, and my sick brain + Staggers and swoons! How often over me + Flashes this breathlessness of sudden sight + In which I see the universe unrolled + Before me like a scroll and read thereon + Chaos and Doom, where helpless planets whirl + Dizzily round and round and round and round, + Like tops across a table, gathering speed + With every spin, to waver on the edge + One instant--looking over--and the next + To shudder and lurch forward out of sight-- + + * * * * * + + Ah, I am worn out--I am wearied out-- + It is too much--I am but flesh and blood, + And I must sleep. Though you were dead again, + I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep. + + + + + The Suicide + + + "Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more! + Thou hast mocked me, starved me, beat my body sore! + And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me, + I have kissed thy crust and eaten sparingly + That I might eat again, and met thy sneers + With deprecations, and thy blows with tears,-- + Aye, from thy glutted lash, glad, crawled away, + As if spent passion were a holiday! + And now I go. Nor threat, nor easy vow + Of tardy kindness can avail thee now + With me, whence fear and faith alike are flown; + Lonely I came, and I depart alone, + And know not where nor unto whom I go; + But that thou canst not follow me I know." + + Thus I to Life, and ceased; but through my brain + My thought ran still, until I spake again: + + "Ah, but I go not as I came,--no trace + Is mine to bear away of that old grace + I brought! I have been heated in thy fires, + Bent by thy hands, fashioned to thy desires, + Thy mark is on me! I am not the same + Nor ever more shall be, as when I came. + Ashes am I of all that once I seemed. + In me all's sunk that leapt, and all that dreamed + Is wakeful for alarm,--oh, shame to thee, + For the ill change that thou hast wrought in me, + Who laugh no more nor lift my throat to sing! + Ah, Life, I would have been a pleasant thing + To have about the house when I was grown + If thou hadst left my little joys alone! + I asked of thee no favor save this one: + That thou wouldst leave me playing in the sun! + And this thou didst deny, calling my name + Insistently, until I rose and came. + I saw the sun no more.--It were not well + So long on these unpleasant thoughts to dwell, + Need I arise to-morrow and renew + Again my hated tasks, but I am through + With all things save my thoughts and this one night, + So that in truth I seem already quite + Free and remote from thee,--I feel no haste + And no reluctance to depart; I taste + Merely, with thoughtful mien, an unknown draught, + That in a little while I shall have quaffed." + + 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: + + "Treasures thou hast that never have been mine! + Warm lights in many a secret chamber shine + Of thy gaunt house, and gusts of song have blown + Like blossoms out to me that sat alone! + And I have waited well for thee to show + If any share were mine,--and now I go! + Nothing I leave, and if I naught attain + I shall but come into mine own again!" + Thus I to Life, and ceased, and spake no more, + But turning, straightway, sought a certain door + In the rear wall. Heavy it was, and low + And dark,--a way by which none e'er would go + That other exit had, and never knock + Was heard thereat,--bearing a curious lock + Some chance had shown me fashioned faultily, + Whereof Life held content the useless key, + And great coarse hinges, thick and rough with rust, + Whose sudden voice across a silence must, + I knew, be harsh and horrible to hear,-- + A strange door, ugly like a dwarf.--So near + I came I felt upon my feet the chill + Of acid wind creeping across the sill. + So stood longtime, till over me at last + Came weariness, and all things other passed + To make it room; the still night drifted deep + Like snow about me, and I longed for sleep. + + But, suddenly, marking the morning hour, + Bayed the deep-throated bell within the tower! + Startled, I raised my head,--and with a shout + Laid hold upon the latch,--and was without. + + * * * * * + + Ah, long-forgotten, well-remembered road, + Leading me back unto my old abode, + My father's house! There in the night I came, + And found them feasting, and all things the same + As they had been before. A splendour hung + Upon the walls, and such sweet songs were sung + As, echoing out of very long ago, + Had called me from the house of Life, I know. + So fair their raiment shone I looked in shame + On the unlovely garb in which I came; + Then straightway at my hesitancy mocked: + "It is my father's house!" I said and knocked; + And the door opened. To the shining crowd + Tattered and dark I entered, like a cloud, + Seeing no face but his; to him I crept, + And "Father!" I cried, and clasped his knees, and wept. + Ah, days of joy that followed! All alone + I wandered through the house. My own, my own, + My own to touch, my own to taste and smell, + All I had lacked so long and loved so well! + None shook me out of sleep, nor hushed my song, + Nor called me in from the sunlight all day long. + + I know not when the wonder came to me + Of what my father's business might be, + And whither fared and on what errands bent + The tall and gracious messengers he sent. + Yet one day with no song from dawn till night + Wondering, I sat, and watched them out of sight. + And the next day I called; and on the third + Asked them if I might go,--but no one heard. + Then, sick with longing, I arose at last + And went unto my father,--in that vast + Chamber wherein he for so many years + Has sat, surrounded by his charts and spheres. + "Father," I said, "Father, I cannot play + The harp that thou didst give me, and all day + I sit in idleness, while to and fro + About me thy serene, grave servants go; + And I am weary of my lonely ease. + Better a perilous journey overseas + Away from thee, than this, the life I lead, + To sit all day in the sunshine like a weed + That grows to naught,--I love thee more than they + Who serve thee most; yet serve thee in no way. + Father, I beg of thee a little task + To dignify my days,--'tis all I ask + Forever, but forever, this denied, + I perish." + "Child," my father's voice replied, + "All things thy fancy hath desired of me + Thou hast received. I have prepared for thee + Within my house a spacious chamber, where + Are delicate things to handle and to wear, + And all these things are thine. Dost thou love song? + My minstrels shall attend thee all day long. + Or sigh for flowers? My fairest gardens stand + Open as fields to thee on every hand. + And all thy days this word shall hold the same: + No pleasure shalt thou lack that thou shalt name. + But as for tasks--" he smiled, and shook his head; + "Thou hadst thy task, and laidst it by", he said. + + + + + 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! + + + + + Sorrow + + + Sorrow like a ceaseless rain + Beats upon my heart. + People twist and scream in pain,-- + Dawn will find them still again; + This has neither wax nor wane, + Neither stop nor start. + + People dress and go to town; + I sit in my chair. + All my thoughts are slow and brown: + Standing up or sitting down + Little matters, or what gown + Or what shoes I wear. + + + + + 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. + + 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. + + + + + Ashes of Life + + + 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! + Would that it were day again!--with twilight near! + + Love has gone and left me and I don't know what to do; + This or that or what you will is all the same to me; + But all the things that I begin I leave before I'm through,-- + There's little use in anything as far as I can see. + + Love has gone and left me,--and the neighbors knock and borrow, + And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,-- + And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow + There's this little street and this little house. + + + + + The Little Ghost + + + I knew her for a little ghost + That in my garden walked; + The wall is high--higher than most-- + And the green gate was locked. + + And yet I did not think of that + Till after she was gone-- + I knew her by the broad white hat, + All ruffled, she had on. + + By the dear ruffles round her feet, + By her small hands that hung + In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, + Her gown's white folds among. + + I watched to see if she would stay, + What she would do--and oh! + She looked as if she liked the way + I let my garden grow! + + She bent above my favourite mint + With conscious garden grace, + She smiled and smiled--there was no hint + Of sadness in her face. + + She held her gown on either side + To let her slippers show, + And up the walk she went with pride, + The way great ladies go. + + And where the wall is built in new + And is of ivy bare + She paused--then opened and passed through + A gate that once was there. + + + + + 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*! + + + + + 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! + + + + + The Shroud + + + Death, I say, my heart is bowed + Unto thine,--O mother! + This red gown will make a shroud + Good as any other! + + (I, that would not wait to wear + My own bridal things, + In a dress dark as my hair + Made my answerings. + + I, to-night, that till he came + Could not, could not wait, + In a gown as bright as flame + Held for them the gate.) + + Death, I say, my heart is bowed + Unto thine,--O mother! + This red gown will make a shroud + Good as any other! + + + + + The Dream + + + 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. + + Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking,-- + White and awful the moonlight reached + Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere, + There was a shutter loose,--it screeched! + + Swung in the wind,--and no wind blowing!-- + I was afraid, and turned to you, + Put out my hand to you for comfort,-- + And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew, + + Under my hand the moonlight lay! + Love, if you laugh I shall not care, + But if I weep it will not matter,-- + Ah, it is good to feel you there! + + + + + Indifference + + + I said,--for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,-- + "I'll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in bed; + But I'll never leave my pillow, though there be some + As would let him in--and take him in with tears!" I said. + I lay,--for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn,-- + I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep; + And he found me at my window with my big cloak on, + All sorry with the tears some folks might weep! + + + + + Witch-Wife + + + She is neither pink nor pale, + And she never will be all mine; + She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, + And her mouth on a valentine. + + She has more hair than she needs; + In the sun 'tis a woe to me! + And her voice is a string of colored beads, + Or steps leading into the sea. + + She loves me all that she can, + And her ways to my ways resign; + But she was not made for any man, + And she never will be all mine. + + + + + Blight + + + 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! + + I cannot but remember + When the year grows old-- + October--November-- + How she disliked the cold! + + + + + Sonnets + + + I + + Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,--no, + Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair + Than small white single poppies,--I can bear + Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though + From left to right, not knowing where to go, + I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there + Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear + So has it been with mist,--with moonlight so. + + Like him who day by day unto his draught + Of delicate poison adds him one drop more + Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten, + Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed + Each hour more deeply than the hour before, + I drink--and live--what has destroyed some men. + + + 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! + + + 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. + + + IV + + Not in this chamber only at my birth-- + When the long hours of that mysterious night + Were over, and the morning was in sight-- + I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firth + I have not seen, through alien grief and mirth; + And never shall one room contain me quite + Who in so many rooms first saw the light, + Child of all mothers, native of the earth. + + So is no warmth for me at any fire + To-day, when the world's fire has burned so low; + I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire, + At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong, + And straighten back in weariness, and long + To gather up my little gods and go. + + + 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. + + + VI Bluebeard + + This door you might not open, and you did; + So enter now, and see for what slight thing + You are betrayed. . . . Here is no treasure hid, + No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring + The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain + For greed like yours, no writhings of distress, + But only what you see. . . . Look yet again-- + An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless. + Yet this alone out of my life I kept + Unto myself, lest any know me quite; + And you did so profane me when you crept + Unto the threshold of this room to-night + That I must never more behold your face. + This now is yours. I seek another place. + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Renascence and Other Poems, by +Edna St. Vincent Millay + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RENASCENCE AND OTHER POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 109.txt or 109.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/109/ + +Produced by Alan Light. 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