As if from a garden of the mind, here is a small basket of Edna St. Vincent Millay.
"Fontaine, Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!" (from Huntsman, What Quarry?)
I know I might have lived in such a way
As to have suffered only pain:
Loving not man nor dog;
Not money, even; feeling
Toothache perhaps, but never more than an hour away
From skill and novocaine;
Making no contacts, dealing with light through agents, drinking
one cocktail, betting two dollars, wearing raincoats in the
rain;
Betrayed at length by no one but the fog
Whispering to the wing of the plane.
"Fountain," I have cried to that unbubbling well, "I will not
drink of thy water!" Yet I thirst
For a mouthful of--not to swallow, only to rinse my mouth in
--peace. And while the eyes of the past condemn,
The eyes of the present narrow into assignation. And...
worst...
The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed;
I shall get no help from them.
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| Huntsman, What Quarry? (1939) |
"Sonnet #XI," from "Fatal Interview"
Not in a silver casket cool with pearls
Or rich with red corundum or with blue,
Locked, and the key withheld, as other girls
Have given their loves, I give my love to you;
Not in a lovers' knot, not in a ring
Worked in such fashion, and the legend plain--
Semper fidelis, where a secret spring
Kennels a drop of mischief for the brain:
Love in the open hand, no thing but that,
Ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt,
As one should bring you cowslips in a hat
Swung from the hand, or apples in her skirt,
I bring you, calling out as children do:
"Look what I have!--And these are all for you."
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| Fatal Interview (1931) |
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| Millay's upstate New York home, "Steepletop" |
