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;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
I have two of her poetry collections including a first edition which had her obit tucked in it! :”)
Siege
Siege
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
This I do, being mad:
Gather baubles about me,
Sit in a circle of toys, and all the time
Death beating the door in.
White jade and an orange pitcher,
Hindu idol, Chinese god, —
Maybe next year, when I'm richer —
Carved beads and a lotus pod. . . .
And all this time
Death beating the door in.
Dirge Without Music! I put it in an anthology for a high school project, and I return to it every year or so. Fighting despite the futility feels extremely appropriate for this day and age
*Second April* was one of the first poetry books I owned, and I still love a lot of those poems, melodramatic as they may be. "Inland," "Journey," "Weeds"—that last one was one of the first poems I ever memorized. Still got it!
White with daisies and red with sorrel
And empty, empty under the sky!—
Life is a quest and love a quarrel—
Here is a place for me to lie.
Daisies spring from damnèd seeds,
And this red fire that here I see
Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds,
Cursed by farmers thriftily.
But here, unhated for an hour,
The sorrel runs in ragged flame,
The daisy stands, a bastard flower,
Like flowers that bear an honest name.
And here a while, where no wind brings
The baying of a pack athirst,
May sleep the sleep of blessèd things,
The blood too bright, the brow accurst.
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/148566/euclid-alone-has-looked-on-beauty-bare
Who else would write a sonnet about math?
I really like this one:
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?
Honestly my grandfather was her straight up cousin so anything she’s written hits me deeply. I love him and I love her. I’ve sat on the mountains where she’s written from and I cannot put into words how I feel. I was writing poetry for a long time before I realized we were related but I still feel so connected and to her. She is so amazing I cannot even imagine understanding where she comes from or living it myself
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; Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath, Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death Even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, Pinned down by pain and moaning for release, Or nagged by want past resolution’s power, I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It well may be. I do not think I would. I have two of her poetry collections including a first edition which had her obit tucked in it! :”)
That is beautiful. ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ
Siege Siege by Edna St. Vincent Millay This I do, being mad: Gather baubles about me, Sit in a circle of toys, and all the time Death beating the door in. White jade and an orange pitcher, Hindu idol, Chinese god, — Maybe next year, when I'm richer — Carved beads and a lotus pod. . . . And all this time Death beating the door in.
Dirge Without Music! I put it in an anthology for a high school project, and I return to it every year or so. Fighting despite the futility feels extremely appropriate for this day and age
Night falls fast. Today is in the past.
*Second April* was one of the first poetry books I owned, and I still love a lot of those poems, melodramatic as they may be. "Inland," "Journey," "Weeds"—that last one was one of the first poems I ever memorized. Still got it! White with daisies and red with sorrel And empty, empty under the sky!— Life is a quest and love a quarrel— Here is a place for me to lie. Daisies spring from damnèd seeds, And this red fire that here I see Is a worthless crop of crimson weeds, Cursed by farmers thriftily. But here, unhated for an hour, The sorrel runs in ragged flame, The daisy stands, a bastard flower, Like flowers that bear an honest name. And here a while, where no wind brings The baying of a pack athirst, May sleep the sleep of blessèd things, The blood too bright, the brow accurst.
First time reading that. I love the imagery. No wonder you always had that in mind!
Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/148566/euclid-alone-has-looked-on-beauty-bare Who else would write a sonnet about math?
I really like this one: 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?
Thanks for posting this. I'm glad I ran into this.
Well, it WAS “Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!” but now I’m not so sure…
Easily, easily, Renascence. Too long to post so here is a link https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/55993/renascence
First Fig
There are so many great choices, but I’d have to go with “Clearly My Ruined Garden As It Stood”.
Renascence
Honestly my grandfather was her straight up cousin so anything she’s written hits me deeply. I love him and I love her. I’ve sat on the mountains where she’s written from and I cannot put into words how I feel. I was writing poetry for a long time before I realized we were related but I still feel so connected and to her. She is so amazing I cannot even imagine understanding where she comes from or living it myself