Archive for the 'Uncategorized' Category

Aubade by Edna St. Vincent Millay

from “Aubade”

From the wound of my enemy that thrust me through in the dark wood
I arose; with sweat on my lip and the wild wood grasses in my spur
I arose and stood.
But never did I arise from loving her.

Millay, Edna St. Vincent. Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Harper, 1939.

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The Oak Leaves by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Oak Leaves

Yet in the end, defeated too, worn out and ready to fall,
Hangs from the drowsy tree with cramped and desperate stem above the ditch the last leaf of all.

There is something to be learned, I guess, from looking at the dead leaves under the living tree;
Something to be set to a lusty tune and learned and sung, it well might be;
Something to be learned–though I was ever a ten-o’clock scholar at this school–
Even perhaps by me.

But my heart goes out to the oak-leaves that are the last to sigh “Enough,” and lose their hold;
They have boasted to the nudging frost and to the two-and-thirty winds that they would never die,
Never even grow old.
(These are those russet leaves that cling
All winter, even into the spring,
To the dormant bough, in the wood knee-deep in the snow the only colored thing.

Millay, Edna St. Vincent. Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Harper, 1939.

Autumn Daybreak by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Autumn Daybreak
Edna St. Vincent Millay

Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud,

I know—for I can hear the hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor—
How may boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.

Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;

When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.

Millay, Edna St. Vincent. Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Harper, 1939.

From A Very Little Sphinx by Edna St. Vincent Millay

from A Very Little Sphinx…

I
Come along in then, little girl!
Or else stay out!
But in the open door she stands,
And bites her lip and twists her hands,
And stares upon me, trouble-eyed:
“Mother,” she says,
“I can’t decide! I can’t decide!”

Millay, Edna St. Vincent. Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Harper, 1939.

The Anguish by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Anguish

I would to God I were quenched and fed
As in my youth
From the flask of song, and the good bread
Of beauty richer than truth.

The anguish of the world is on my tongue.
My bowl is filled to the brim with it; there is more than I can eat.
Happy are the toothless old and the toothless young,
That cannot rend this meat.

Millay, Edna St. Vincent. Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Harper, 1939.

The Philosopher by Edna St. Vincent Millay

The Philosopher
Edna St. Vincent Millay

AND what are you that, missing you,
I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
And looking at the wall?

I know a man that’s a braver man
And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
The one man in my mind?

Yet women’s ways are witless ways,
As any sage will tell,–
And what am I, that I should love
So wisely and so well?

Millay, Edna St. Vincent. Collected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Harper, 1939.

The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell – IV

Experimentally, silently, I mouth I love you … No one hears, no one sees, but the tree falls in the forest just the same.

Mitchell, David. The Bone Clocks: A Novel. New York: Random House, 2014.

The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell – III

If an atrocity isn’t written about, it stops existing when the last witnesses die. That’s what I can’t stand. If a mass shooting, a bomb, a whatever, is written about, then at least it’s made a tiny dent in the world’s memory. Someone, somewhere, some time, has a chance of learning what happened. And, just maybe, acting on it. Or not. But at least it’s there.

Mitchell, David. The Bone Clocks: A Novel. New York: Random House, 2014.

The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell – II

I consider how you don’t get to choose whom you’re attracted to, you only get to wonder about it retrospectively.

Mitchell, David. The Bone Clocks: A Novel. New York: Random House, 2014.

The Bone Clocks by David Mitchell – I

Power is lost or won, never created or destroyed. Power is a visitor to, not a possession of, those it empowers.

Mitchell, David. The Bone Clocks: A Novel. New York: Random House, 2014.