Poems. Edna St. Vincent Millay

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      I’ll keep a little tavern

       Below the high hill’s crest,

       Wherein all grey-eyed people

       May sit them down and rest.

      There shall be plates a-plenty,

       And mugs to melt the chill

       Of all the grey-eyed people

       Who happen up the hill.

      There sound will sleep the traveller,

       And dream his journey’s end,

       But I will rouse at midnight

       The falling fire to tend.

      Aye, ’tis a curious fancy—

       But all the good I know

       Was taught me out of two grey eyes

       A long time ago.

Ashes of Life

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      Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;

       Eat I must, and sleep I will—and would that night were here!

       But ah!—to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!

       Would that it were day again!—with twilight near!

      Love has gone and left me and I don’t know what to do;

       This or that or what you will is all the same to me;

       But all the things that I begin I leave before I’m through—

       There’s little use in anything as far as I can see.

      Love has gone and left me—and the neighbours knock and borrow,

       And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse—

       And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow

       There’s this little street and this little house.

The Little Ghost

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      I knew her for a little ghost

       That in my garden walked;

       The wall is high—higher than most—

       And the green gate was locked.

      And yet I did not think of that

       Till after she was gone—

       I knew her by the broad white hat,

       All ruffled, she had on.

      By the dear ruffles round her feet,

       By her small hands that hung

       In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,

       Her gown’s white folds among.

      I watched to see if she would stay,

       What she would do—and oh!

       She looked as if she liked the way

       I let my garden grow!

      She bent above my favourite mint

       With conscious garden grace,

       She smiled and smiled—there was no hint

       Of sadness in her face.

      She held her gown on either side

       To let her slippers show,

       And up the walk she went with pride,

       The way great ladies go.

      And where the wall is built in new

       And is of ivy bare

       She paused—then opened and passed through

       A gate that once was there.

Kin to Sorrow

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      Am I kin to Sorrow,

       That so oft

       Falls the knocker of my door—

       Neither loud nor soft,

       But as long accustomed,

       Under Sorrow’s hand?

       Marigolds around the step

       And rosemary stand,

       And then comes Sorrow—

       And what does Sorrow care

       For the rosemary

       Or the marigolds there?

       Am I kin to Sorrow?

       Are we kin?

       That so oft upon my door—

       Oh, come in!

Three Songs of Shattering

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I

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      The first rose on my rose-tree

       Budded, bloomed, and shattered,

       During sad days when to me

       Nothing mattered.

      Grief of grief has drained me clean;

       Still it seems a pity

       No one saw—it must have been

       Very pretty.

II

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