Quotes by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Edna St. Vincent Millay (used the pseudonym Nancy Boyd) (February 22, 1892 October 19, 1950) was a lyrical poet and playwright and the first woman to receive the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. She was also known for her ...

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Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.

I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
Parrots, tortoises and redwoods live a longer life than men do; Men a longer life than dogs do; Dogs a longer life than love does.
My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night; but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends -- it gives a lovely light!
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies. Nobody that matters, that is.
It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it's one damn thing over and over.
And if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday--So much is true.
God, I can push the grass apart and lay my finger on Thy heart.
Set the foot down with distrust on the crust of the world -- it is thin.
A person who publishes a book appears willfully in public with his pants down.
The heart once broken is a heart no more, / And is absolved from all a heart must be.
A grave is such a quiet place.
Down you mongrel, Death! / Back into your kennel!
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.
The soul can split the sky in two, / And let the face of God shine through.
Was it for this I uttered prayers, / And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, / That now, domestic as a plate, / I should retire at half-past eight?
Spring will not ail nor summer falter; / Nothing will know that you are gone ….
With him for a sire and her for a dam, / What should I be but just what I am?
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
O April, full of blood, full of breath, have pity upon us! Pale, where the winter like a stone has been lifted away, we emerge like yellow grass. Be for a moment quiet, buffet us not, have pity upon us, Till the green come back into the vein, till the giddiness pass.
I cannot but remember When the year grows old--October--November--How she disliked the cold!
. . . I know that Beauty must ail and die, And will be born again,--but ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky! Oh, Autumn! Autumn!--What is the Spring to me?
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.