Collected Poems

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

  clxxviii

  What rider spurs him from the darkening east

  As from a forest, and with rapid pound

  Of hooves, now light, now louder on hard ground,

  Approaches, and rides past with speed increased,

  Dark spots and flecks of foam upon his beast?

  What shouts he from the saddle, turning ’round,

  As he rides on?—“Greetings!”—I made the sound;

  “Greetings from Nineveh!”—it seemed, at least.

  Did someone catch the object that he flung?

  He held some object on his saddle-bow,

  And flung it towards us as he passed; among

  The children then it fell most likely; no,

  ’Tis here: a little bell without a tongue.

  Listen; it has a faint voice even so.

  INDEX OF TITLES AND FIRST LINES

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  A wagon stopped before the house; she heard,

  Above These Cares,

  Above these cares my spirit in calm abiding,

  Admetus, from my marrow’s core l do,

  Afternoon on a Hill,

  The Agnostic,

  Ah, broken garden, frost on the melons and on the beans!,

  Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass,

  Ah, drink again,

  Alas for Man, so stealthily betrayed,

  All I could see from where I stood,

  All men are lonely now,

  Alms,

  Am I kin to Sorrow,

  Amorphous is the mind; its quality,

  An Ancient Gesture,

  And if I die, because that part of me,

  And if I love you Wednesday,

  And is indeed truth beauty?—as the cost,

  And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you,

  And what are you that, wanting you,

  And you as well must die, beloved dust,

  The Anguish,

  The Animal Ball,

  Apostrophe to Man,

  April again in Avrillé,

  April this year, not otherwise,

  Armenonville,

  As day was born, as night was dying,

  As I sat down by Saddle Stream,

  As I went walking up and down to take the evening air,

  Before this cooling planet shall be cold,

  Being Young and Green,

  Being young and green, I said in love’s despite,

  Believe, if ever the bridges of this town,

  The Betrothal,

  Between the red-top and the rye,

  Black bird scudding,

  Black hair you’d say she had, or rather,

  Blight,

  The Blue-Flag in the Bog,

  The Bobolink,

  Brother, that breathe the August air,

  The Buck in the Snow,

  Burial,

  Butterflies are white and blue,

  By goodness and by evil so surrounded, how can the heart,

  By the lake at Armenonville in the

  Bois de Boulogne,

  The Cairn,

  Calm was Half-Moon Bay; we lay at anchor there,

  As men have loved their lovers in times past,

  As sharp as in my childhood, still,

  As to some lovely temple, tenantless,

  Ashes of Life,

  Assault,

  At least, my dear,

  Aubade,

  Autumn Chant,

  Autumn Daybreak,

  Aye, but she?,

  Baccalaureate Hymn,

  The Ballad of Chaldon Down,

  The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver,

  Be sure my coming was a sharp offense,

  The Bean-Stalk,

  Beautiful Dove, come back to us in

  April,

  Beautiful Parsi woman if your pail silk veil,

  Before she has her floor swept,

  Before the cock in the barnyard spoke,

  The Cameo,

  Cap D’Antibes,

  Cave Canem,

  Charming, the movement of girls about a May-pole in May,

  Charon, indeed, your dreaded oar,

  Cherish you then the hope I shall forget,

  Childhood Is the Kingdom Where

  Nobody Dies,

  Christmas Canticle,

  City Spring,

  Clearly my ruined garden as it stood,

  Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud,

  Come along in then, little girl!,

  Come home, victorious wounded!—let the dead,

  The Concert,

  Conscientious Objector,

  Cool and beautiful as the blossom of the wild carrot,

  Count them unclean, these tears that turn no mill,

  Counting-out Rhyme,

  Country of hunchback!—where the strong, straight spine,

  Cretaceous bird, your giant claw no lime,

  Cruel of heart, lay down my song,

  The Curse, 169 “Curse thee, Life, I will live with thee no more!,

  Cut if you will, with Sleep’s dull knife,

  Daphne,

  Dawn,

  Death devours all lovely things,

  The Death of Autumn,

  Death, I say, my heart is bowed,

  Deep in the muck of unregarded doom,

  Departure,

  Desolation Dreamed Of,

  Desolation dreamed of, though not accomplished,

  Detestable race, continue to expunge yourself, die out,

  Dirge Without Music,

  Do I not know what savage blossom only under the pitting hail,

  Do you recall how we sat by the smokily-burning,

  Shelter this candle from the wind,

  Short Story,

  The Shroud,

  Siege,

  Silver bark of beech, and sallow,

  Since I cannot persuade you from this mood,

  Since of no creature living the last breath,

  The Singing-Woman from the

  Wood’s Edge,

  Sky-coloured bird, blue wings with no more spots of spotless white,

  Small Hands, Relinquish All,

  Small hands, relinquish all,

  The Snow Storm,

  So she came back into his house again,

  So, art thou feathered, art thou flown,

  The Solid Sprite Who Stands

  Alone,

  Some Things Are Dark,

  Some things are dark—or think they are,

  Somebody long ago,

  Sometime, oh, often indeed, in the midst of ugly adversity, beautiful,

  Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly,

  Sometimes, oh, often, indeed,

  “Son,” said my mother, 177 Song,

  Song,

  Song for Young Lovers in a City,

  Song of a Second April,

  Sonnet,

  Sorrow,

  Sorrow like a ceaseless rain,

  Sorrowful dreams remembered after waking,

  Souvenir,

  The Spring and the Fall,

  Spring in the Garden,

  Spring rides no horses down the hill,

  Spring,

  Spring Song,

  Steepletop,

  Still must the poet as of old,

  Still will I harvest beauty where it grows,

  Strange thing that I, by nature nothing prone,

  The Strawberry Shrub,

  Strawberry Shrub, old-fashioned, quaint as quinces,

  Strong sun, that bleach,

  The Suicide,

  Summer, be seen no more within this word,

  Sun came up, bigger than all my sorrow,

  Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart,

  Sweet sounds, oh, beautiful music, do not cease!,

  Sweeter was loss than silver coins to spend,

  Tavern,

  Te
nderly, in those times, as though she fed,

  Thanksgiving Dinner,

  That chill is in the air,

  That Love at length should find me out and bring,

  The angry nettle and the mild,

  The apple-trees bud, but I do not,

  The book, when I am dead, will be,

  The broken dike, the levee washed away,

  The courage that my mother had,

  The doctor asked her what she wanted done,

  The first rose on my rose-tree,

  The fitter said, “Madame, vous avez maigri,”

  The heart once broken is a heart no more,

  The last white sawdust on the floor was grown,

  The light comes back with Columbine; she brings,

  The railroad track is miles away,

  The room is full of you!—As I came in,

  The rush of rain against the glass,

  The sea at sunset can reflect,

  The storm is over, and the land has forgotten the storm; the trees are still,

  The tired agnostic longs for prayer,

  The trees along the city street,

  The white bark writhed and sputtered like a fish,

  The wind in the ash-tree sounds like surf on the shore at Truro,

  Theme and Variations,

  Then cautiously she pushed the cellar door,

  There as I bent above the broken pot from the mesa pueblo,

  There at Dusk I Found You,

  There at dusk I found you, walking and weeping,

  Their is a well into whose bottomless eye,

  There it was I saw what I shall never forget,

  There was a road ran past our house,

  There was upon the sill a pencil mark,

  There where the woodcock his long bill among the alders,

  There will be rose and rhododendron,

  There, there where those black spruces crowd,

  These hills, to hurt me more,

  These wet rocks where the tide has been,

  They must not go alone,

  “Thin Rain, whom are you haunting,

  Think not I have not heard,

  Think not, nor for a moment let your mind,

  This,

  This beast that rends me in the sight of all,

  This door your might not open, and you did,

  This Dusky Faith,

  This I do, being mad,

  This is mine, and I can hold it,

  This should be simple; if one’s power were great,

  Those hours when happy hours were my estate,

  Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,

  Thou famished grave, I will not fill thee yet,

  Thou great offended God of love and kindness,

  Thou sinful Soul, how wilt thou feel,

  Though less for love than for the deep,

  Three Songs from “The Lamp and the Bell,”

  Three Songs of Shattering,

  Through the Green Forest,

  Through the green forest softly without a sound,

  Thursday,

  Time cannot break the bird’s wing from the bird,

  Time does not bring relief; you all have lied,

  Time, that is pleased to lengthen out the day,

  To a Calvinist in Bali,

  To a Friend Estranged from Me,

  To a Musician,

  To a Poet that Died Young,

  To a Snake,

  To a Young Girl,

  To a Young Poet,

  To Elinor Wylie,

  To hold secure the province of Pure Art,

  To Kathleen,

  To One Who Might Have Borne a

  Message,

  To S. M.,

  To S. V. B.—June 15, 1940,

  To the Maid of Orleans,

  To the Not Impossible Him,

  130 To the Wife of a Sick Friend,

  To Those Without Pity,

  To what purpose, April, do you return again?,

  To whom the house of Montagu,

  Tranquility at length, when autumn comes,

  Travel,

  Tree Ceremonies,

  Tristan,

  Truce for a Moment,

  Truce for a moment between Earth and Ether,

  Truck-Garden Market-Day,

  The True Encounter,

  Twice having seen your shingled heads adorable,

  Two Voices,

  Underground System,

  The Unexplorer,

  Upon this age, that never speaks its mind,

  Upon this marble bust that is not I,

  Valentine,

  It is this that you get for being so far-sighted. Not so many years,

  It’s little I care what path I take,

  Jesus to His Disciples,

  Joan, Joan, can you be,

  Journal,

  Journey,

  Just a rainy day or two,

  Justice Denied in Massachusetts,

  Keen,

  Kin to Sorrow,

  Lament,

  The Leaf and the Tree,

  Let us abandon then our gardens and go home,

  Let us be circumspect, surrounded as we are,

  Let us go to the Animal Ball, disguised as bipeds!,

  Let you not say of me when I am old,

  Lethe,

  Life, were thy pains as are the pains of hell,

  Importuned through the mails, ac-costed over the telephone,

  Impression: Fog Off the Coast of

  Dorset,

  In a fine country, in a sunny country,

  In April, when the yellow whin,

  In the Grave No Flower,

  In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year,

  In this pond of placid water,

  In this squalid, dirty dooryard,

  Indifference,

  Inert Perfection,

  “Inert Perfection, let me chip your shell,

  Inland,

  Intense and terrible, I think, must be the loneliness,

  Intention to Escape from Him,

  Interim,

  Into the golden vessel of great song,

  Invocation to the Muses,

  It came into her mind, seeing how the snow,

  It is the fashion now to wave aside,

  Lines for a Grave-Stone,

  Lines Written in Recapitulation,

  Listen, children,

  The Little Ghost,

  The Little Hill,

  Look how the bittersweet with lazy muscle moves aside,

  Lord Archer, Death, whom sent you in your stead?,

  Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike,

  Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink,

  Love is not blind. I see with single eye,

  Love me no more, now let the god de-part,

  Love, if I weep it will not matter,

  Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,

  Loving you less than life, a little less,

  Low-Tide,

  Macdougal Street,

  Man alive, that mournst thy lot,

  Mariposa,

  Memorial to D.C.,

  Memory of Cape Cod,

  Memory of Cassis,

  Memory of England (October 1940),

  Men Working,

  Menses,

  The Merry Maid,

  Midnight Oil,

  Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring,

  Mine is a body that should die at sea!,

  Minstrel, what have you to do,

  Mist in the Valley,

  Modern Declaration,

  Moon, that against the lintel of the west, 656 Moriturus,

  Mortal Flesh, Is Not Your Place in the Ground?,

  Mortal flesh, is not your place in the ground?—Why do you stare so,

  Most wicked words!-forbear to speak them out,

  My candle burns at both ends,

  My earnestness, which might at first offend,

  My falcon to my wrist,

  My heart it wha
t it was before,

  My Heart, Being Hungry,

  My heart, being hungry, feeds on food,

  My most distinguished guest and learned friend,

  My Spirit, Sore from Marching,

  My spirit, sore from marching,

  My words that once were virtuous and expressed,

  My worship from this hour the

  Sparrow-Drawn,

  Nay, learned doctor, these fine leeches fresh,

  Never May the Fruit Be Plucked,

  Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough,

  New England Spring, 1942,

  Night is my sister, and how deep in love,

  No Earthly Enterprise,

  No earthly enterprise,

  No further from me than my hand,

  No hawk hangs over in this air,

  No lack of counsel from the shrewd and wise,

  No matter what I say,

  Norose that in a garden ever grew,

  No, I will go alone,

  Northern April,

  Not even my pride will suffer much,

  Not ever, now, any more, upon this mildewed planet,

  Not for a Nation,

  Not for a nation,

  Not for these lovely blooms that prank your chambers did I come,

  Not in a silver casket cool with pearls,

  Not in this chamber only at my birth,

  Not knowing he rose from earth, not having seen him rise,

  Not only love plus awful grief,

  Not over-kind nor over-quick in study,

  Not So Far as the Forest,

  Not that it matter, not that my heart’s cry,

  Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter,

  Not, to me, less lavish—though my dreams have been splendid,

  Now by the path I climbed, I journey back,

  Now by this moon, before this moon shall wane,

  Now forth to meadow as the farmer goes,

  Now goes under, and I watch it go under, the sun,

  Now let forever the phlox and the rose be tended,

  Now let the mouth of wailing for a time,

  Now sets his foot upon the eastern sill,

  Now sits the autumn cricket in the grass,

  Now that the west is washed of clouds and clear,

  Now the autumn shudders,

  Nuit Blanche,

  0 ailing Love, compose your struggling wing!,

  O Earth, unhappy planet born to die,

  0 mind, beset by music never for a moment quiet,

  0 world, I cannot hold thee close enough!,

  0, loveliest throat of all sweet throats,

  The Oak-Leaves,

  Observe how Miyanoshita cracked in two,

  October—An Etching,

  Ode to Silence,

  Of all that ever in extreme disease,

  Of what importance,

  O my lovely girls, my dancers,

  O my lovely boys,

  Oh, come again to Astolat!,

  Oh, come, my lad, or go, my lad,

  Oh, here the air is sweet and still,

  Oh, I am grown so free from care,

  Oh, lay my ashes on the wind,