Edna St. Vincent Millay

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

Edna St. Vincent Millay Poems

1. [four Sonnets (1922)] 1/1/2004
2. A Visit To The Asylum 1/13/2003
3. Afternoon On A Hill 1/4/2003
4. Alms 1/13/2003
5. An Ancient Gesture 1/13/2003
6. And Do You Think That Love Itself 1/13/2003
7. And You As Well Must Die, Belovèd Dust 1/1/2004
8. Apostrophe To Man 1/13/2003
9. Ashes Of Life 1/13/2003
10. Assault 1/13/2003
11. Autumn Daybreak 1/13/2003
12. Being Young And Green 1/13/2003
13. Blight 1/13/2003
14. Bluebeard 1/1/2004
15. Burial 1/13/2003
16. Childhood Is The Kingdom Where Nobody Dies 11/28/2014
17. Chorus 1/13/2003
18. City Trees 1/13/2003
19. Conscientious Objector 1/13/2003
20. Counting-Out Rhyme 1/1/2004
21. Daphne 1/13/2003
22. Departure 1/13/2003
23. Dirge 1/13/2003
24. Dirge Without Music 1/13/2003
25. Doubt No More That Oberon 1/13/2003
26. Ebb 1/13/2003
27. Eel-Grass 1/13/2003
28. Elegy 1/13/2003
29. Elegy Before Death 1/13/2003
30. Epitaph 1/13/2003
31. Euclid Alone 1/1/2004
32. Exiled 1/13/2003
33. Feast 1/13/2003
34. First Fig 1/13/2003
35. Fontaine, Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau! 1/13/2003
36. God's World 1/4/2003
37. Grown-Up 1/1/2004
38. Here Is A Wound That Never Will Heal, I Know 1/13/2003
39. Humoresque 1/1/2004
40. I Do But Ask That You Be Always Fair 1/1/2004
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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