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Sonnets From An Ungrafted Tree

XLI

I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear you body's weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clairfy the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity,—let me make it plain:
I find ths frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.

poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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I, Being Born a Woman and Distressed

I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body's weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn wtih pity, -- let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.

poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Sonnets (1923)

VIII8.
Oh, oh, you will be sorry for that word!
.
Give back my book and take my kiss instead.
.
Was it my enemy or my friend I heard,
.
"What a big book for such a little head!"
.
Come, I will show you now my newest hat,
.
And you may watch me purse my mouth and prink!
.
Oh, I shall love you still, and all of that.
.
I never again shall tell you what I think.
.
I shall be sweet and crafty, soft and sly;
.

You will not catch me reading any more:
.

I shall be called a wife to pattern by;
.

And some day when you knock and push the door,
.

Some sane day, not too bright and not too stormy,
.

I shall be gone, and you may whistle for me. IX9.
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 levelled 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. XVIII18.
I, being born a woman and distressed
.
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
.
Am urged by your propinquity to find
.
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
.
To bear your body's weight upon my breast:
.
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
.
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
.
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
.

Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
.

I shall remember you with love, or season
.

My scorn with pity, -- let me make it plain:
.

I find this frenzy insufficient reason
.

For conversation when we meet again. XIX19.
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
.
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
.
Under my head till morning; but the rain
.
Is full of ghosts to-night, that tap and sigh
.
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
.
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
.
For unremembered lads that not again
.
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
.
Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,
.

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
.

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
.

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
.

I only know that summer sang in me
.

A little while, that in me sings no more.

poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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To Fanny

I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love!
Merciful love that tantalizes not,
One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
Unmasked, and being seen—without a blot!
O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,
That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,—
Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,
Withhold no atom's atom or I die,
Or living on, perhaps, your wretched thrall,
Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
Life's purposes,—the palate of my mind
Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!

poem by John Keats
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Forever at His side to walk

246

Forever at His side to walk—
The smaller of the two!
Brain of His Brain—
Blood of His Blood—
Two lives—One Being—now—

Forever of His fate to taste—
If grief—the largest part—
If joy—to put my piece away
For that beloved Heart—

All life—to know each other—
Whom we can never learn—
And bye and bye—a Change—
Called Heaven—
Rapt Neighborhoods of Men—
Just finding out—what puzzled us—
Without the lexicon!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The first Day's Night had come

410

The first Day's Night had come—
And grateful that a thing
So terrible—had been endured—
I told my Soul to sing—

She said her Strings were snapt—
Her Bow—to Atoms blown—
And so to mend her—gave me work
Until another Morn—

And then—a Day as huge
As Yesterdays in pairs,
Unrolled its horror in my face—
Until it blocked my eyes—

My Brain—begun to laugh—
I mumbled—like a fool—
And tho' 'tis Years ago—that Day—
My Brain keeps giggling—still.

And Something's odd—within—
That person that I was—
And this One—do not feel the same—
Could it be Madness—this?

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Shall I Wasting in Despair

Shall I wasting in despair
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my heart be griev'd or pin'd
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposed nature
Joined with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deserving known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best
If she be not such to me,
What care I, how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

poem by George Wither
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The Manly Heart

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or my cheeks make pale with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day
Or the flowery meads in May --
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?

Shall my foolish heart be pined
'Cause I see a woman kind;
Or a well dispos-ed nature
Join-ed with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her merit's value known
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of Best;
If she seem not such to me,
What care I how good she be?

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
Who without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?

Great or good, or kind or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?

poem by George Wither
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Song II

Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die, because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flow'ry meads in May;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be.

Should my heart be grieved or pined
'Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well-disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely creature?
Be she meeker, kinder than
Turtle-dove or pelican:
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be.

Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or, her well-deserving known,
Make me quite forget mine own?
Be she with that goodness blest
Which may gain her name of best
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be.

'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want or riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo.
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be.

Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve.
If she slight me, when I woo,
I can scorn, and let her go.
For, if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be.

poem by George Wither
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The Brain—is wider than the Sky

632

The Brain—is wider than the Sky—
For—put them side by side—
The one the other will contain
With ease—and You—beside—

The Brain is deeper than the sea—
For—hold them—Blue to Blue—
The one the other will absorb—
As Sponges—Buckets—do—

The Brain is just the weight of God—
For—Heft them—Pound for Pound—
And they will differ—if they do—
As Syllable from Sound—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Debate Between Villon And His Heart

Who's that I hear?—It's me—Who?—Your heart
Hanging on by the thinnest thread
I lose all my strength, substance, and fluid
When I see you withdrawn this way all alone
Like a whipped cur sulking in the corner
Is it due to your mad hedonism?—
What's it to you?—I have to suffer for it—
Leave me alone—Why?—I'll think about it—
When will you do that?—When I've grown up—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—

What's your idea?—To be a good man—
You're thirty, for a mule that's a lifetime
You call that childhood?—No—Madness
Must have hold of you—By what, the halter?—
You don't know a thing—Yes I do—What?—Flies in milk
One's white, one's black, they're opposites—
That's all?—How can I say it better?
If that doesn't suit you I'll start over—
You're lost—Well I'll go down fighting—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—

I get the heartache, you the injury and pain
If you were just some poor crazy idiot
I'd be able to make excuses for you
You don't even care, all's one to you, foul or fair
Either your head's harder than a rock
Or you actually prefer misery to honor
Now what do you say to that?—
Once I'm dead I'll rise above it—
God, what comfort—What wise eloquence—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—

Why are you miserable?—Because of my miseries
When Saturn packed my satchel I think
He put in these troubles—That's mad
You're his lord and you talk like his slave
Look what Solomon wrote in his book
"A wise man" he says "has authority
Over the planets and their influence"—
I don't believe it, as they made me I'll be—
What are you saying?—Yes that's what I think—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—

Want to live?—God give me the strength—
It's necessary...—What is?—To feel remorse
Lots of reading—What kind?—Read for knowledge
Leave fools alone—I'll take your advice—
Or will you forget?—I've got it fixed in mind—
Now act before things go from bad to worse
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it.

Trans. Galway Kinnell

poem by François Villon
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Tell Everybody

Well every night when I come home,
you just make me want to cry.
There's no more feeling in your heart,
I can tell by the look in your eyes.
You sold my house, you wrecked my car,
and you keep telling me lies.
I'm gonna tell y'all the plain old truth
and I hope it's help you in time.
I'm gonna tell everybody
make sure you got your woman's love.
I'll tell everybody
that a woman needs a man to love.
Can't you see what you're doin' to me?
Girl you got to change your ways.
I can't stand this running around.
Lord I got to find me a way.
Oh dreams are dreams, and love is love,
and that's the way that I feel.
If I'm gonna find a woman to love,
I gotta make her see what is real.
I'm gonna tell everybody
make sure you got your woman's love.
I'll tell everybody
that a woman needs a man to love.
Yes she does.
Now she's gone and I'm on my way
to find me a better life.
No more time to settle down,
I just got to find out what it's like.
Life is real and time is right
for us to see how it is.
If you're lookin' for a woman to love
make sure she's yours and not his.
I'm gonna tell everybody
make sure you got your woman's love.
I'll tell everybody
that a woman needs a man to love.
Yes she does.

song performed by by 38 Special
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Creatures Of Love

A woman made a man
A man he made a house
And when they lay together
Little creatures all come out
Well, Ive seen sex and I think its alright
It makes those little creatures come to life
I can laugh or I can turn away
Well, Ive seen sex and I think its okay
We are creatures, creatures of love
We are creatures, creatures of love
From the sleep of reason, a life is born
We are creatures, creatures of love
Its okay to be afraid
When the blue sparks hit your brain
We can love one another
Ive been told that its okay
Doctor, doctor, tell me what I am
Am I one of those human beings
Well I can laugh or I can learn to think
So help me now to find out what I feel
We are creatures, creatures of love
We are creatures, creatures of love
Weve been here forever, before you were born
We are creatures of love, we are creatures of love
A man can drive his car
And a woman can be a boss
Im a monkey and a flower
Im everything at once
Well, a woman and a man can be together
If they decide to theyll make little creatures
Watch em now!
Little creature of love
With two arms and two legs
From a moment of passion
Now they cover the bed
We are creatures of love, we are creatures of love
We are creatures, creatures of love
We are creatures, creatures of love
From the sleep of reason, a life is born
We are creatures of love, we are creatures of love

song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I was small, a Woman died

596

When I was small, a Woman died—
Today—her Only Boy
Went up from the Potomac—
His face all Victory

To look at her—How slowly
The Seasons must have turned
Till Bullets clipt an Angle
And He passed quickly round—

If pride shall be in Paradise—
Ourself cannot decide—
Of their imperial Conduct—
No person testified—

But, proud in Apparition—
That Woman and her Boy
Pass back and forth, before my Brain
As even in the sky—

I'm confident that Bravoes—
Perpetual break abroad
For Braveries, remote as this
In Scarlet Maryland—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Don't put up my Thread and Needle

617

Don't put up my Thread and Needle—
I'll begin to Sew
When the Birds begin to whistle—
Better Stitches—so—

These were bent—my sight got crooked—
When my mind—is plain
I'll do seams—a Queen's endeavor
Would not blush to own—

Hems—too fine for Lady's tracing
To the sightless Knot—
Tucks—of dainty interspersion—
Like a dotted Dot—

Leave my Needle in the furrow—
Where I put it down—
I can make the zigzag stitches
Straight—when I am strong—

Till then—dreaming I am sewing
Fetch the seam I missed—
Closer—so I—at my sleeping—
Still surmise I stitch—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Again—his voice is at the door

663

Again—his voice is at the door—
I feel the old Degree—
I hear him ask the servant
For such an one—as me—

I take a flower—as I go—
My face to justify—
He never saw me—in this life—
I might surprise his eye!

I cross the Hall with mingled steps—
I—silent—pass the door—
I look on all this world contains—
Just his face—nothing more!

We talk in careless—and it toss—
A kind of plummet strain—
Each—sounding—shyly& mdash;
Just—how—deep—
The other's one—had been—

We walk—I leave my Dog—at home—
A tender—thoughtful Moon—
Goes with us—just a little way—
And—then—we are alone—

Alone—if Angels are "alone"—
First time they try the sky!
Alone—if those "veiled faces"—be—
We cannot count—on High!

I'd give—to live that hour—again—
The purple—in my Vein—
But He must count the drops—himself—
My price for every stain!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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All these my banners be

22

All these my banners be.
I sow my pageantry
In May—
It rises train by train—
Then sleeps in state again—
My chancel—all the plain
Today.

To lose—if one can find again—
To miss—if one shall meet—
The Burglar cannot rob—then—
The Broker cannot cheat.
So build the hillocks gaily
Thou little spade of mine
Leaving nooks for Daisy
And for Columbine—
You and I the secret
Of the Crocus know—
Let us chant it softly—
"There is no more snow!"

To him who keeps an Orchis' heart—
The swamps are pink with June.

poem by Emily Dickinson
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I cross till I am weary

550

I cross till I am weary
A Mountain—in my mind—
More Mountains—then a Sea—
More Seas—And then
A Desert—find—

And My Horizon blocks
With steady—drifting—Grains
Of unconjectured quantity—
As Asiatic Rains—

Nor this—defeat my Pace—
It hinder from the West
But as an Enemy's Salute
One hurrying to Rest—

What merit had the Goal—
Except there intervene
Faint Doubt—and far Competitor—
To jeopardize the Gain?

At last—the Grace in sight—
I shout unto my feet—
I offer them the Whole of Heaven
The instant that we meet—

They strive—and yet delay—
They perish—Do we die—
Or is this Death's Experiment—
Reversed—in Victory?

poem by Emily Dickinson
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My Worthiness is all my Doubt

751

My Worthiness is all my Doubt—
His Merit—all my fear—
Contrasting which, my quality
Do lowlier—appear—

Lest I should insufficient prove
For His beloved Need—
The Chiefest Apprehension
Upon my thronging Mind—

'Tis true—that Deity to stoop
Inherently incline—
For nothing higher than Itself
Itself can rest upon—

So I—the undivine abode
Of His Elect Content—
Conform my Soul—as 'twere a Church,
Unto Her Sacrament—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Midnight Lamentation

When you and I go down
Breathless and cold,
Our faces both worn back
To earthly mould,
How lonely we shall be!
What shall we do,
You without me,
I without you?

I cannot bear the thought
You, first, may die,
Nor of how you will weep,
Should I.
We are too much alone;
What can we do
To make our bodies one:
You, me; I, you?

We are most nearly born
Of one same kind;
We have the same delight,
The same true mind.
Must we then part, we part;
Is there no way
To keep a beating heart,
And light of day?

I could now rise and run
Through street on street
To where you are breathing–you,
That we might meet,
And that your living voice
Might sound above
Fear, and we two rejoice
Within our love.

How frail the body is,
And we are made
As only in decay
To lean and fade.
I think too much of death;
There is a gloom
When I can’t hear your breath
Calm in some room.

O, but how suddenly
Either may droop;
Countenance be so white,
Body stoop.
Then there may be a place
Where fading flowers
dropp on a lifeless face
Through weeping hours.

Is then nothing safe?
Can we not find
Some everlasting life
In our one mind?
I feel it like disgrace
Only to understand
Your spirit through your word,
Or by your hand.

I cannot find a way
Through love and through;
I cannot reach beyond
Body, to you.
When you or I must go
Down evermore,
There’ll be no more to say
–But a locked door.

poem by Harold Monro
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Farewell, Fair Armida. A Song

Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief!
In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief;
Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe,
Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair:
Now called by my honour, I seek with content
The fate which in pity you would not prevent:
To languish in love were to find, by delay,
A death that's more welcome the speediest way.
On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire,
The danger is less than in hopeless desire;
My death's wound you give me, though far off I bear
My fall from your sight—not to cost you a tear:
But if the kind flood on a wave should convey,
And under your window my body should lay,
The wound on my breast when you happen to see,
You'll say with a sigh—it was given by me.

poem by John Dryden
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