Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay

There will be rose and rhododendron
When you are dead and under ground;
Still will be heard fr...

Heap not on this mound
Roses that she loved so well;
Why bewilder her with roses,
That she c...

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of wo...

I Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,
And drag me at your chariot till I die--
O...

O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists, that ro...

People that build their houses inland,
People that buy a plot of ground
Shaped like a house, ...

Am I kin to Sorrow,
That so oft
Falls the knocker of my door--
Neither loud nor soft,
But a...

Listen, children:
Your father is dead.
From his old coats
I'll make you little jackets;
I'...

I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one. &...

Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;
Eat I must, and sleep I will--and would ...

I We talk of taxes, and I call you friend;
Well, such you are--but well enough we know
How ...

My heart is what it was before,
A house where people come and go;
But it is winter with your ...