Portions from Four Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Because sometimes someone else can say it better.

I.
The first rose on my rose-tree
Budded, bloomed, and shattered,
During sad days when to me
Nothing [else] mattered.

Grief of grief has drained me clean;
Still it seems a pity
No one saw, -- it must have been
Very pretty.

--from "Three Songs of Shattering"

***

II. (1928)
For you there is no song . . .
Only the shaking
Of the voice that meant to sing; the sound of the strong
Voice breaking.

Strange in my hand appears
The pen, and yours broken.
There are ink and tears on the page; only the tears
Have spoken.

--from "To Elinor Wylie"

***

II.
Heart, do not bruise the breast
That sheltered you so long;
Beat quietly, strange guest.

Or have I done you wrong
To feed you life so fast?
Why, no; digest this food
And thrive. You could outlast
Discomfort if you would.

[...]

Heart, do not stain my skin
With bruises; go about
Your simple function. Mind,
Sleep now; do not intrude;
And do not spy; be kind.

--from "Theme and Variations"

***

When it is over -- for it will be over --
Will there be none the less, will there be still
In April on the southern slope of an orchard, apple orchard hill,
Red-and-white buds already fragrant, intent upon blossoming? --
There will; I know there will.

--from "When It Is Over"