Edna St. Vincent Millay

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

Edna St. Vincent Millay Poems

161. City Trees 1/13/2003
162. An Ancient Gesture 1/13/2003
163. Dirge Without Music 1/13/2003
164. The Spring And The Fall 1/13/2003
165. First Fig 1/13/2003
166. Afternoon On A Hill 1/4/2003
167. Conscientious Objector 1/13/2003
168. What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, And Where, And Why (Sonnet Xliii) 1/13/2003
169. Love Is Not All 1/13/2003

Comments about Edna St. Vincent Millay

  • 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.

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  • 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.

  • 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

Love Is Not All

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of ...

Read the full of Love Is Not All

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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