I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY, Poems
Lost in Hell,-Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee;
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."
EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY, Collected Poems
Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour,
Rains from the sky a meteoric shower
Of facts ... they lie unquestioned, uncombined.
Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill.
EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY, "Huntsman, what quarry?"
Longing alone is singer to the lute.