Early Poems

Edna St. Vincent Millay

• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9780486160108
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Poésie américaine

One of the most successful poets in America and a fascinating literary figure of the early twentieth century, Edna St. Vincent Millay found her voice in a national poetry contest at the age of twenty. Her poems received critical praise and became the first step toward receiving the Pulitzer Award years later. An acclaimed poet of the Jazz Age, this liberated, often rebellious, woman enchanted us with her beautiful sonnets and lyrics, even as she surprised us with her unconventional personal life. This vibrant volume includes the complete selection of poems from Millay's first three books. Each gem reflects a different facet of the author's versatility.
Renascence and Other Poems was Millay's first collection of poetry, a literary sensation when it was published in 1912. Acclaimed by critics for its remarkable use of compelling language and imagery, it is a deeply personal work that reflects the poet's spiritual awakening, using the themes of death and resurrection. In contrast, the poetry in A Few Figs from Thistles represents a cynical stage, a time of rebellion, and a search for personal freedom, as depicted in her famous line, "My candle burns at both ends." Part beauty, part despair, the free verse and heartfelt sonnets of Second April are an expression of Millay's feelings about love and disillusionment. Eloquent, daring, and sometimes bittersweet, these masterful lyrics exemplify the best work of a complex, passionate, and gifted poet. Includes a selection from the Common Core State Standards Initiative: "Afternoon on a Hill."

Second April

Spring

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots,
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

City Trees

The trees along this city street,

Save for the traffic and the trains,

Would make a sound as thin and sweet

As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade

Out of a shower, undoubtedly

Would hear such music as is made

Upon a country tree.

Oh, little leaves that are so dumb

Against the shrieking city air,

I watch you when the wind has come,

I know what sound is there.

The Blue-Flag in the Bog

God had called us, and we came;

Our loved Earth to ashes left;

Heaven was a neighbor’s house,

Open flung to us, bereft.

Gay the lights of Heaven showed,

And ’twas God who walked ahead;

Yet I wept along the road,

Wanting my own house instead.

Wept unseen, unheeded cried,

“All you things my eyes have kissed,

Fare you well! We meet no more,

Lovely, lovely tattered mist!

Weary wings that rise and fall

All day long above the fire!”—

Red with heat was every wall,

Rough with heat was every wire—

“Fare you well, you little winds

That the flying embers chase!

Fare you well, you shuddering day,

With your hands before your face!

And, ah, blackened by strange blight,

Or to a false sun unfurled,

Now forevermore goodbye,

All the gardens in the world!

On the windless hills of Heaven,

That I have no wish to see,

White, eternal lilies stand,

By a lake of ebony.

But the Earth forevermore

Is a place where nothing grows,—

Dawn will come, and no bud break;

Evening, and no blossom close.

Spring will come, and wander slow

Over an indifferent land,

Stand beside an empty creek,

Hold a dead seed in her hand.”

God had called us, and we came,

But the blessed road I trod

Was a bitter road to me,

And at heart I questioned God.

“Though in Heaven,” I said, “be all

That the heart would most desire,

Held Earth naught save souls of sinners

Worth the saving from a fire?

Withered grass,—the wasted growing!

Aimless ache of laden boughs!”

Little things God had forgotten

Called me, from my burning house

“Though in Heaven,” I said, “be all

That the eye could ask to see,

All the things I ever knew

Are this blaze in back of me.”

“Though in Heaven,” I said, “be all

That the ear could think to lack,

All the things I ever knew

Are this roaring at my back.”

It was God who walked ahead,

Like a shepherd to the fold;

In his footsteps fared the weak,

And the weary and the old,

Glad enough of gladness over,

Ready for the peace to be,—

But a thing God had forgotten

Was the growing bones of me.

And I drew a bit apart,

And I lagged a bit behind,

And I thought on Peace Eternal,

Lest He look into my mind;

And I gazed upon the sky,

And I thought of Heavenly Rest,—

And I slipped away like water

Through the fingers of the blest!

All their eyes were fixed on Glory,

Not a glance brushed over me;

“Alleluia! Alleluia!”

Up the road,—and I was free.

And my heart rose like a freshet,

And it swept me on before,

Giddy as a whirling stick,

Till I felt the earth once more.

All the Earth was charred and black,

Fire had swept from pole to pole;

And the bottom of the sea

Was as brittle as a bowl;

And the timbered mountain-top

Was as naked as a skull,—

Nothing left, nothing left,

Of the Earth so beautiful!

“Earth,” I said, “how can I leave you?”

“You are all I have,” I said;

“What is left to take my mind up,

Living always, and you dead?”

“Speak!” I said, “Oh, tell me something!

Make a sign that I can see!

For a keepsake! To keep always!

Quick!—before God misses me!”

And I listened for a voice;—

But my heart was all I heard;

Not a screech-owl, not a loon,

Not a tree-toad said a word.

And I waited for a sign;—

Coals and cinders, nothing more;

And a little cloud of smoke

Floating on a valley floor.

And I peered into the smoke

Till it rotted, like a fog:—

There, encompassed round by fire,

Stood a blue-flag in a bog!

Little flames came wading out,

Straining, straining towards its stem,

But it was so blue and tall

That it scorned to think of them!

Red and thirsty were their tongues,

As the tongues of wolves must be,

But it was so blue and tall—

Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!

All my heart became a tear,

All my soul became a tower,

Never lov...

Table of contents

• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Note
• Table of Contents
• Renascence and Other Poems
• A Few Figs from Thistles
• Second April
• Index of First Lines