Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly
Of all the things that are the outward you,
And my gaze wanders ere your tale is through
To webs of my own weaving, or I see
Abstractedly your hands about your knee
And wonder why I love you as I do,
Then I recall, “Yet Sorrow thus he drew”;
Then I consider, “Pride thus painted he.”
Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note
In me a beauty that was never mine,
How first you knew me in a book I wrote,
How first you loved me for a written line:
So are we bound till broken is the throat
Of Song, and Art no more leads out the Nine.

1. There Was upon the Sill
2. Gazing upon Him Now
3. She Had a Horror
4. The Doctor Asked Her
5. So She Came Back

Print

1712 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version