Treasure Island

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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

Mist In The Valley


These hills, to hurt me more,
That am hurt already enough,—
Having left the sea behind,
Having turned suddenly and left the shore
That I had loved beyond all words, even a song's words, to
convey,

And built me a house on upland acres,
Sweet with the pinxter, bright and rough
With the rusty blackbird long before the winter's done,
But smelling never of bayberry hot in the sun,
Nor ever loud with the pounding of the long white breakers,—

These hills, beneath the October moon,
Sit in the valley white with mist
Like islands in a quiet bay,

Jut out from shore into the mist,
Wooded with poplar dark as pine,
Like points of land into a quiet bay.

(Just in the way
The harbour met the bay)

Stricken too sore for tears,
I stand, remembering the Islands and the sea's lost sound—
Life at its best no longer than the sand-peep's cry,
And I two years, two years,
Tilling an upland ground!

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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Read poems about / on: october, winter, sea, house, song, moon, lost, dark, sun, life, remember

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  • Colleen Courtney (5/17/2014 11:45:00 AM)

    I adore this poem of the poet! So much gorgeous imagery and so much longing for the soul to return to it's home by the sea. Beautiful poem in every way! (Report) Reply

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