Kin to Sorrow - The Self Reflections of Edna St. Vincent Millay

Millay

• Verlag: Ragged Hand - Read & Co.
• Jahr: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781528790611
• Thema: Literature
• Thema: American Poetry

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950) was an American playwright, Pulitzer Prize-winning lyrical poet, and feminist activist. One of the most celebrated poets in American history, Millay is hailed as the twentieth century's most skillfull sonnet writers who expertly married modern attitudes with traditional forms of expression. "Kin to Sorrow - The Self Reflections of Edna St. Vincent Millay" contains 22 beautiful poems by Millay, with each connected to emotions. Celebrated for their lyrical beauty, Millay's poems are infused with fiery romance and the youthful spirit that would become a characteristic of her writing. Contents include: "Sorrow", "Kin to Sorrow", "Indifference", "Blight", "Sonnet I", "Sonnet IV", "Sonnet VI Bluebeard", "First Fig", "Second Fig", "Grown-Up", "Recuerdo", "The Penitent", "Tavern", "Portrait by a Neighbour", etc. A wonderful collection of classic poetry that constitutes a must-read for fans and collectors of Millay's timeless work. Other notable works by this author include: "Two Slatterns and a King", "The Lamp and the Bell", and "Aria da Capo". Ragged Hand - Read & Co is publishing this brand new collection of poetry now for a new generation of readers to enjoy.

ODE TO SILENCE

Aye, but she?

Your other sister and my other soul,

Grave Silence, lovelier

Than the three loveliest maidens, what of her?

Clio, not you,

Not you, Calliope,

Nor all your wanton line,

Not Beauty’s perfect self shall comfort me

For Silence once departed,

For her the cool-tongued, her the tranquil-hearted,

Whom evermore I follow wilfully,

Wandering Heaven and Earth and Hell and the four seasons through;

Thalia, not you,

Not you, Melpomene,

Not your incomparable feet, O thin Terpsichore,

I seek in this great hall,

But one more pale, more pensive, most beloved of you all

I seek her from afar

I come from temples where her altars are,

From groves that bear her name,

Noisy with stricken victims now and sacrificial flame,

And cymbals struck on high and strident faces

Obstreperous in her praise

They neither love nor know,

A goddess of gone days,

Departed long ago,

Abandoning the invaded shrines and fanes

Of her old sanctuary,

A deity obscure and legendary,

Of whom there now remains,

For sages to decipher and priests to garble,

Only and for a little while her letters wedged in marble,

Which even now, behold, the friendly mumbling rain erases,

And the inarticulate snow,

Leaving at last of her least signs and traces

None whatsoever, nor whither she is vanished from these places.

“She will love well,” I said,

“If love be of that heart inhabiter,

The flowers of the dead;

The red anemone that with no sound

Moves in the wind, and from another wound

That sprang, the heavily-sweet blue hyacinth,

That blossoms underground,

And sallow poppies, will be dear to her

And will not Silence know

In the black shade of what obsidian steep

Stiffens the white narcissus numb with sleep?

(Seed which Demeter’s daughter bore from...