Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Here is a wound that never will heal, I know
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow
Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath
Its friendly weathers down, far underneath
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.
That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be leveled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain.