Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

Make bright the arrows
Gather the shields:
Conquest narrows
The peaceful fields. 

Stock well the quiver
With arrows bright:
The bowman feared
Need never fight. 

Make bright the arrows,
O peaceful and wise!
Gather the shields
Against surprise.

1. Sometimes When I Am Wearied
2. When You, That at This Moment
3. I See So Clearly Now My Similar Years
4. Lord Archer, Death
5. She Filled Her Arms with Wood

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