Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

She Filled Her Arms with Wood

She filled her arms with wood, and set her chin
Forward, to hold the highest stick in place,
No less afraid than she had always been
Of spiders up her arms and on her face,
But too impatient for a careful search
Or a less heavy loading, from the heap
Selecting hastily small sticks of birch,
For their curled bark, that instantly will leap
Into a blaze, nor thinking to return
Some day, distracted, as of old, to find
Smooth, heavy, round, green logs with a wet, gray
   rind
Only, and knotty chunks that will not burn,
(That day when dust is on the wood-box floor,
And some old catalogue, and a brown, shriveled
   apple core).

1. The Last White Sawdust
2. Loving You Less Than Life
3. I, Being Born a Woman
4. Still Will I Harvest Beauty
5. How Healthily Their Feet

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