I am so glad I came across this gem known as Edna st Vincent Millay. Vincent Millay, Random House, 2001. After the Nazis defeated the Low Countries and France in May and June of 1940, she began writing propaganda verse. Vincent Millay is told from the perspective of a speaker who has lost all touch with her own ambitions and is stuck within the monotonous rut of everyday life. The sky, I thought, is not so grand;I 'most could touch it with my hand! Would to GodI too might feel that frenzied faith whose touchMakes temporal the most enduring grief;Though it must walk a while, as is its wont,With wild lamenting! Her popularity stemmed from both her remarkably crafted sonnets and her bohemian lifestyle, including her political stances, and open relationships. I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woofIn some firm fabric, woven in and out;Your golden filaments in fair designAcross my duller fibre. I should have sent him to Millay.
If you are touched by her poetry, read this book. 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 motherWith the harp against her shoulder,Looking nineteeen,And not a day older, A smile about her lips,And a light about her head,And her hands in the harp-stringsFrozen dead. And reaching up my hand to try,I screamed to feel it touch the sky. I see them yet, in the spring of the year. It's quite a ride out to where you're going but you'll be there before. Year by year the wasted plain Eats its death and lives again; And the dusty body heaves Its death aside and puts forth leaves.
Make bright the arrows, O peaceful and wise! If you have not read her. I recall With terrible distinctness how the smell Of your cool gardens drifted in with you. They blaze before me still, as wild And clear, as when I was a child. 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. I recently came home from the library with a stack and I mean a stack of new-to-me poetry, and I've been saturating myself with it ever since. Maeterlinck had a web to weave Across this legend, I believe; But did not state his point so clearly As I have done above, not nearly. She dreads the monotony of every day, and the day after that.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. If, now, the naked eye can see So little of the chemistry By which itself is hale or blind,- What, then, about the naked mind? And all at once things seemed so smallMy breath came short, and scarce at all. Yours is a face of which I can forget The color and the features, every one, The words not ever, and the smiles not yet; But in your day this moment is the sun Upon a hill, after the sun has set. The first and my favorite section was 1917 Renascence- This may have been my favorite of the entire collection, but I keep changing my mind. Her poetry spoke to my soul and I will be reading more from her. I wonder where it is.
There's much that's fine to see and hear In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year. In researching more poets, I discovered that Edna St. In 1923 her fourth volume of poems, The Harp Weaver, was awarded the Pulitzer Prize. She lived in a nine-foot-wide attic and wrote anything she could find an editor willing to accept. It sharpens it, almost immediately. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
The rain, I said, is kind to comeAnd speak to me in my new home. The Collected Poems of Edna St. As a flâneuse, I wander to understand the intricacies of human relationships. I need not, though I do, recall Such moments in my childhood, when Wonder sprang out at me again, And took me by the heels, and whirled Me round and round above the world. Although we are comforted by these ideas and philosophies, the truth is, nobody is ever free. Vincent Millay those several years ago, and remains my favorite to this day? Upon her return to Steepletop, she began to call up the material from memory and write it down.
But weakened by illnesses, she did not finish the work, and the Millays returned to New York in February, 1923. Father, I beg of thee a little taskTo dignify my days,—'tis all I askForever, but forever, this denied,I perish. None are middle ground for me, or just alright. Looking nineteen, And not a day older, And the harp with a woman's head Leaned against her shoulder. All that was left usWas a chair we couldn't break,And the harp with a woman's headNobody would take,For song or pity's sake. She wove a pair of breechesQuicker than that! But the strength in that work can be found in equal measure in the works of many female authors past and present. In August of 1927, however, Millay became involved in the Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti case.
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. I had read a handful of her sonnets a few years ago, and one in particular haunted me and has never lost its grip on me. I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And oaths were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far,- Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking. There in the night I came, And found them feasting, and all things the same As they had been before. 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.
O, multi-colored, multiform, Beloved beauty over me, That I shall never, never see Again! 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. The grass, a-tiptoe at my ear,Whispering to me I could hear;I felt the rain's cool finger-tipsBrushed tenderly across my lips,Laid gently on my sealed sight,And all at once the heavy nightFell 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. No, it will not be long. 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. That we control our fait. If it ended up not being appropriate for my niece, at least I would improve my own reading list. I think it's safe to say that it may be my favorite poem ever.