Edna St. Vincent Millay

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

Sonnets 01: We Talk Of Taxes, And I Call You Friend


We talk of taxes, and I call you friend;
Well, such you are,—but well enough we know
How thick about us root, how rankly grow
Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend,
That flourish through neglect, and soon must send
Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow
Our steady senses; how such matters go
We are aware, and how such matters end.
Yet shall be told no meagre passion here;
With lovers such as we forevermore
Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere
Receives the Table's ruin through her door,
Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear,
Lets fall the colored book upon the floor.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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  • Rookie Meleia Von Walsung (5/28/2010 1:15:00 PM)

    I could complete my life hearing and reading only St Vincent Millay! Bittersweet resignation seems to be a leit motif in many of her works, and the pictures she paints with her choice of words are always, to me, brooding, somber, sad in a universal sense. (Report) Reply

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