Edna St. Vincent Millay Quotes - Page 6

Life isn't all beer and skittles; few of us have touched a skittle in years.

Although we sometimes did without a few of life's necessities, we rarely lacked for its luxuries.

On and on eternally Shall your altered fluid run, Bud and bloom and go to seed; But your singing days are done

The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while.

God, I can push the grass apart and lay my finger on Thy heart.

Need we say it was not love, Now that love is perished?

I make bean stalks, I'm A builder, like yourself.

A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up 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?

Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year My soul is all but out of me-let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

When I can make Of ten small words a rope to hang the world! "I had you and I have you now no more.

But you were something more than young and sweet And fair, - and the long year remembers you.

Man has never been the same since God died.

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

What the customer demands is last year's model, cheaper. To find out what the customer needs you have to understand what the customer is doing as well as he understands it. Then you build what he needs and you educate him to the fact that he needs it.

Life in itself / Is nothing, / An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. / It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, / April / Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Oh, children, growing up to be Adventurers into sophistry, Forbear, forbear to be of those That read the rood to learn the rose.

O troubled forms, O early love unfortunate and hard, Time has estranged you into a jewel cold and pure

I know I am but summer to your heart, And not the full four seasons of the year; And you must welcome from another part Such noble moods as are not mine, my dear. No gracious weight of golden fruits to sell Have I, nor any wise and wintry thing; And I have loved you all too long and well To carry still the high sweet breast of Spring. Wherefore I say: O love, as summer goes, I must be gone, steal forth with silent drums, That you may hail anew the bird and rose When I come back to you, as summer comes. Else will you seek, at some not distant time, Even your summer in another clime.

Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust!

He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs.

Longing alone is singer to the lute.

There is no God. But it does not matter. Man is enough.

When we are old and these rejoicing veins Are frosty channels to a muted stream, And out of all our burning there remains No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream, This be our solace: that it was not said When we were young and warm and in our prime, Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead, Sleeping away the unreturning time.

Spring TO what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Euclid Alone Has Looked on Beauty Bare.