Edna St. Vincent Millay

(22 February 1892 – 19 October 1950 / Rockland / Maine / United States)

Comments about Edna St. Vincent Millay

  • Rookie Hunter Freaking Foster (11/22/2013 3:21:00 PM)

    Truly an awesome poet. I majored in poetry, and I can say for myself that this is a great poet.

    31 person liked.
    17 person did not like.
  • Rookie - 85 Points John Hardesty (7/2/2013 1:29:00 PM)

    Maine claims her, and America labeled her a poet! Would have loved to met her, in her time! One of my favorite and most cherished!

  • Rookie Willie Walker (2/16/2012 3:33:00 PM)

    And I to lie with you, Melissa. On a bright sunshiny morning in the High Sierras or in an evening during the magic of an alpenglow..

  • Rookie Gabrielle A. Macdonald (1/18/2012 7:25:00 PM)

    One of the poems iin which Millay is shattered and humiliated not by the loss of love but by the travesty of justice during the Sacco-Vanzetti trumped up trial. Both were executed - more for being Italian immigrants and anarchists..than for anything based on evidence. Compare to the infamous Dreyfuss Affair in France.
    The pernicious weeds have won, Millay's character thinks.

  • Rookie - 0 Points Michael Harmon (4/19/2009 4:24:00 PM)

    I guess my previous information was incorrect. This PH biography seems to imply she died from smoking; my understanding was that she fell down a flight of steps at her home and broke her neck.

  • Rookie Melissa Nelson (10/21/2005 7:00:00 AM)

    This poem created a relaxing feel for me. I would give anything to be able to just lay under the sun on a hill.

Best Poem of Edna St. Vincent Millay

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why (Sonnet Xliii)

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A ...

Read the full of What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why (Sonnet Xliii)

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.

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