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
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine,—O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!
(I, that would not wait to wear
My own bridal things,
In a dress dark as my hair
Made my answerings.
I, to-night, that till he came
Could not, could not wait,
In a gown as bright as flame
Held for them the gate.)
Death, I say, my heart is bowed
Unto thine,—O mother!
This red gown will make a shroud
Good as any other!