Always in the heart she loved Others had lived,—she heard their laughter.

The water will always fall, and will not fall, And the tipped bell make no sound. The grass will always be growing for hay Deep on the ground.

Medusa

I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year,

Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!

I wish I could walk till my blood should spout, And drop me, never to stir again, On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out, And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain. But dump or dock, where the path I take Brings up, it's little enough I care, And it's little I'd mind the fuss they'll make, Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere. "Is something the matter, dear," she said, "That you sit at your work so silently?" "No, mother, no—'twas a knot in my thread. There goes the kettle—I'll make the tea." Source: Ainslee's (August, 1919) Share on Twitter Share on Facebook Print this page Email this page More About this Poem More Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay Kin to Sorrow By Edna St. Vincent Millay The Little Tavern By Edna St. Vincent Millay Afternoon on a Hill By Edna St. Vincent Millay Figs from Thistles: First Fig By Edna St. Vincent Millay from Figs from Thistles: Second Fig By Edna St. Vincent Millay See All Poems by this Author Poems Poems for Children Poems for Teens Poem Guides Audio Poems Poets Prose Harriet Blog Collections Listen Learn Children Teens Adults Educators Glossary of Poetic Terms Visit Events Exhibitions Library Poetry Magazine Current Issue Poetry Magazine Archive Subscriptions About the Magazine How to Submit Advertise with Us About Us Give Foundation Awards Media Partnerships Poetry Out Loud People Jobs .st0{fill:none;stroke:#ED1C24;stroke-width:3.64;stroke-miterlimit:10;} .st1{fill:#ED1C24;} .st2{fill:#FFFFFF;} Twitter Find us on Twitter Facebook Find us on Facebook Instagram Find us on Instagram Tumblr Find us on Tumblr Facebook Find us on Facebook Poetry Foundation Children Twitter Find us on Twitter Poetry Magazine Contact Us Newsletters Press Privacy Policy Policies Terms of Use Poetry Mobile App 61 West Superior Street, Chicago, IL 60654 Hours: Monday-Friday 11am - 4pm © 2018 Poetry Foundation See a problem on this page? More About This Poem Departure By Edna St. Vincent Millay About this Poet Throughout much of her career, Pulitzer Prize-winner Edna St. Vincent Millay was one of the most successful and respected poets in America. She is noted for both her dramatic works, including Aria da capo, The Lamp and the Bell, and the libretto composed for an... Read Full Biography More About this Poet Region: U.S., New England Quick Tags Living Disappointment & Failure window.GLOBAL = { VERSION: '1.2.4', ENDPOINTS: { FILTERS: { POEM: 'https://www.poetryfoundation.org/ajax/poems', POET: 'https://www.poetryfoundation.org/ajax/poets' }, SEARCH: 'https://www.poetryfoundation.org/ajax/search/autocomplete' }, API_KEY: { FB: '112997417630' } }; (function(i,s,o,g,r,a,m){i['GoogleAnalyticsObject']=r;i[r]=i[r]||function(){ (i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o), m=s.getElementsByTagName(o)[0];a.async=1;a.src=g;m.parentNode.insertBefore(a,m) })(window,document,'script','https://www.google-analytics.com/analytics.js','ga'); ga('create', 'UA-4659065-1', 'auto'); ga('set', 'anonymizeIp', true); ga('send', 'pageview'); (function(){var b=document.getElementsByTagName("script")[0],c=window.location.href,a=document.createElement("script");a.type="text/javascript";a.async=!0;a.src="//s3-us-west-2.amazonaws.com/philantro/pdf/philantro.js";window.options={EIN:"362490808",Referrer:c};b.parentNode.insertBefore(a,b)})(); 0902070000

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.

     The friends stopped again -- poor, short-winded bodies -- on the crest of the low hill and turned to look at the wide landscape, bewildered by the marvelous beauty and the sudden flood of golden sunset light that poured out of the western sky. They could not remember that they had ever observed the wide view before; it was like a revelation or an outlook towards the celestial country, the sight of their own green farms and the countryside that bounded them. It was a pleasant country indeed, their own New England: their petty thoughts and vain imaginings seemed futile and unrelated to so fair a scene of things. But the figure of a man who was crossing the meadow below looked like a malicious black insect. It was an old man, it was Enoch Holt; time had worn and bent him enough to have satisfied his bitterest foe. The women could see his empty coat-sleeve flutter as he walked slowly and unexpectantly in that glorious evening light.

  How do you like my story?

  How do you like my story?

I could understand that the son was in a hurry to get his mother away from it. I was sure that the boyhood he had spent there must have been uncomfortable, and that he did not look back to it with much pleasure. There is an immense contrast between even a moderately comfortable city house and such a place as this. No wonder that he remembered the bitter cold mornings, the frost and chill, and the dark, and the hard work, and wished his mother to leave them all behind, as he had done! He did not care for the few plain bits of furniture; why should he? and he had been away so long, that he had lost his interest in the neighbors. Perhaps this might come back to him again as he grew older; but now he moved about among them, in his handsome but somewhat flashy clothes, with a look that told me he felt conscious of his superior station in life. I did not altogether like his looks, though somebody said admiringly, as he went by, "They say he's worth as much as thirty thousand dollars a'ready. He's smart as a whip."      But, while I did not wonder at the son's wishing his mother to go away, I also did not wonder at her being unwilling to leave the dull little house where she had spent so much of her life. I was afraid no other house in the world would ever seem like home to her: she was a part of the old place; she had worn the doors smooth by the touch of her hands, and she had scrubbed the floors, and walked over them, until the knots stood up high in the pine boards. The old clock had been unscrewed from the wall, and stood on a table; and when I heard its loud and anxious tick, my first thought was one of pity for the poor thing, for fear it might be homesick, like its mistress. When I went out again, I was very sorry for old Mrs. Wallis; she looked so worried and excited, and as if this new turn of affairs in her life was too strange and unnatural; it bewildered her, and she could not understand it; she only knew every thing was going to be different.

THE RETURN

Again beside the woodland bars     She found the wilding rose, With petals fine and heart of stars, --     The flower our childhood knows. And there, before that blossom small,     By its young face beguiled, The woman saw her burden fall,     And stood a little child.

THE bright sea washed beneath her feet,     As it had done of yore, The well-remembered odor sweet     Came through her opening door.