Although we sometimes did without a few of life’s necessities, we rarely lacked for its luxuries.
The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed.
No one but Night, with tears on her dark face, watches beside me in this windy place.
Guess I’ll weep awhile. Guess I won’t, I mean.
A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?
Stranger, pause and look; From the dust of ages Lift this little book, Turn the tattered pages, Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters finding Steadfast in the broken binding All that once was I!
This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.
There is no God. But it does not matter. Man is enough.
A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public eye with his pants down.
But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, and hear the nightingale, and long for me.
I saw and heard, and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, and present, and forevermore.
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale, And her mouth on a valentine.
And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.
My heart is warm with the friends I make, And better friends I’ll not be knowing, Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, No matter where it’s going.
A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down. If it is a good book nothing can hurt him. If it is a bad book nothing can help him.
We are all ruled in what we do by impulses; and these impulses are so organized that our actions in general serve for our self preservation and that of the race.
That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
After all my erstwhile dear, my no longer cherished; Need we say it was not love, just because it perished?
I know what my heart is like Since your love died: It is like a hollow ledge Holding a little pool Left there by the tide, A little tepid pool, Drying inward from the edge.
I would blossom if I were a rose.