The Death Of Autumn
When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,
And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind
Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned
Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes,
Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak,
Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek,—
Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes
My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,
And will be born again,—but ah, to see
Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!
Oh, Autumn! Autumn!—What is the Spring to me?
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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Fitter to see Him, I may be
For the long Hindrance—Grace—to Me—
With Summers, and with Winters, grow,
Some passing Year—A trait bestow
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The Waiting—then—will seem so worth
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The blame that I was chosen—then—
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For Evidence it be the Grace—
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He seek Conviction, That—be This—
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I only must not change so fair
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The Love, tho', will array me right
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Upon an Excellenter Youth—
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The name—of it—is "Autumn"
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The name—of it—is "Autumn"—
The hue—of it—is Blood—
An Artery—upon the Hill—
A Vein—along the Road—
Great Globules—in the Alleys—
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Unit, like Death, for Whom?
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Unit, like Death, for Whom?
True, like the Tomb,
Who tells no secret
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Tickets admit
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And the Borne—
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Autumn—overlooked my Knitting
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Autumn—overlooked my Knitting—
Dyes—said He—have I—
Could disparage a Flamingo—
Show Me them—said I—
Cochineal—I chose—for deeming
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And the little Border—Dusker—
For resembling Me—
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Tis so appalling—it exhilarates
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'Tis so appalling—it exhilarates—
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The Soul stares after it, secure—
A Sepulchre, fears frost, no more—
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How easy, Torment, now—
Suspense kept sawing so—
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We show them—prayer—
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Looking at Death, is Dying—
Just let go the Breath—
And not the pillow at your Cheek
So Slumbereth—
Others, Can wrestle—
Yours, is done—
And so of Woe, bleak dreaded—come,
It sets the Fright at liberty—
And Terror's free—
Gay, Ghastly, Holiday!
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Some such Butterfly be seen
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Some such Butterfly be seen
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Some such Spice—express and pass—
Subject to Your Plucking—
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A Mien to move a Queen—
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Her—"last Poems"
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Her—"last Poems"—
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From the Anglo-Florentine—
Late—the Praise—
'Tis dull—conferring
On the Head too High to Crown—
Diadem—or Ducal Showing—
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Suffocate—with easy woe—
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If I'm lost—now
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If I'm lost—now
That I was found—
Shall still my transport be—
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That in my awkward—gazing—face—
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You'll know—Sir—when the Savior's face
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The Winters are so short—
I'm hardly justified
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And moving into Pod—
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The Court is far away—
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A Murmur in the Trees—to note—
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The Robin's my Criterion for Tune—
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You know that Portrait in the Moon—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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The World—stands—solemner—to me—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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'Tis Opposites—entice—
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The Lost—Day's face—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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Behind Me—dips Eternity—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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He gave away his Life—
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poem by Emily Dickinson
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