Edna St. Vincent Millay

Lord I do fear / Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year.

Some of us have been thinking and talking too long without doing anything. Poems are perfect; picketing, sometimes, is better.

You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.

How strange a thing is death, bringing to his knees, bringing to his antlers The buck in the snow . . . Life, looking out attentive from the eyes of the doe.

SHE is neither pink nor pale, And she never will be all mine; She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine. She has more hair than she needs; In the sun ’tis a woe to me! And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea. She loves me all that she can, And her ways to my ways resign; But she was not made for any man, And she never will be all mine.

The soul can split the sky in two and let the face of God shine through.

Night falls fast. Today is in the past.

I've written so many verses and keep on writing so many more that I became afraid that if I didn't write them into one big book, I might forget some of them.

Set the foot down with distrust on the crust of the world - it is thin.

pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.

That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.

Should at that moment the full moon Step forth upon the hill, And memories hard to bear at noon, By moonlight harder still, Form in the shadows of the trees, - Things that you could not spare And live, or so you thought, yet these All gone, and you still there, A man no longer what he was, Not yet the thing he planned.

The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed.

The longest absence is less perilous to love than the terrible trials of incessant proximity.

God, I can push the grass apart and lay my finger on Thy heart.

Let us not forget such words, and all they mean, as hatred, bitterness, and rancor greed, intolerance, bigotry; let us renew our faith and pledge to man, his right to be himself and free.

I am all the time talking about you, and bragging, to one person or another. I am like the Ancient Mariner, who had a tale in his heart he must unfold to all. I am always buttonholing somebody and saying, "Someday you must meet my mother."

Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour falls from the sky a meteoric shower of facts; They lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill is daily spun, But there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.

Sweet love, sweet thorn, when lightly to my heart. I took your thrust, whereby I since am slain, And I lie disheveled in the grass apart, A sodden thing bedrenched by tears and rain.

The fabric of my faithful love_x000D_ _x000D_ No power shall dim or ravel_x000D_ _x000D_ Whilst I stay here - but oh, my dear,_x000D_ _x000D_ If I should ever travel!

A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.