My candle burns in ~ both ends; It will not critical the night;But ah, mine foes, and oh, mine friends— It offers a beloved light!

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Edna St. Vincent Millay to be born in Rockland, Maine, on February 22, 1892. A poet and also playwright city collections incorporate The Ballad the the Harp-Weaver (Flying Cloud Press, 1922), winner that the Pulitzer Prize, and also Renascence and Other Poems (Harper, 1917) She died on October 18, 1950, in Austerlitz, brand-new York.

She is no pink nor pale, and she never will be all mine;She learned she hands in a fairy-tale, and her mouth top top a valentine.She has more hair than she needs; In the sunlight "tis a woe come me!And she voice is a string of fancy beads, Or measures leading into the sea.She loves me all the she can, and her ways to my ways resign; but she was not made for any type of man, and she never will be all mine.

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"Curse thee, Life, I will certainly live v thee no more!Thou besides mocked me, starved me, to win my human body sore!And all for a pledge that was not pledged by me,I have kissed thy crust and also eaten sparinglyThat I might eat again, and met her sneersWith deprecations, and also thy blows with tears,—Aye, from her glutted lash, glad, crawled away,As if spent passion were a holiday!And now I go. No one threat, nor basic vowOf crust kindness can avail thee nowWith me, whence fear and faith alike space flown;Lonely ns came, and also I depart alone,And understand not whereby nor unto whom i go;But that thou canst not follow me ns know."Thus i to Life, and ceased; but through mine brainMy thought ran still, till I spake again:"Ah, however I go no as ns came,—no traceIs mine come bear far of that old graceI brought! I have actually been cook in her fires,Bent by thy hands, fashioned come thy desires,Thy mark is top top me! i am not the sameNor ever more shall be, as once I came.Ashes am i of every that when I seemed.In me all"s sunk the leapt, and also all that dreamedIs wakeful because that alarm,—oh, dead to thee,For the ill change that thou hast wrought in me,Who laugh no much more nor lift my throat to singAh, Life, ns would have actually been a satisfied thingTo have about the residence when ns was grownIf she hadst left my little joys alone!I request of thee no favor save this one:That you wouldst leaving me playing in the sun!And this you didst deny, calling mine nameInsistently, until I rose and came.I experienced the sun no more.—It were no wellSo long on these unpleasant think to dwell,Need i arise to-morrow and also renewAgain my hated tasks, yet I am throughWith every things conserve my thoughts and this one night,So that in truth I seem already quiteFree,and far from thee,—I feel no hasteAnd no reluctance come depart; i tasteMerely, v thoughtful mien, one unknown draught,That in a little while i shall have quaffed."Thus i to Life, and also ceased, and slightly smiled,Looking at nothing; and my thin desires filedBefore me one by one till as soon as againI set brand-new words depend an old refrain:"Treasures she hast the never have been mine!Warm lamp in countless a secret chamber shineOf thy gaunt house, and also gusts of song have actually blownLike blossoms out to me that satellite alone!And I have actually waited well because that thee to showIf any kind of share to be mine,—and now I goNothing ns leave, and also if i naught attainI shall but come into mine very own again!"Thus ns to Life, and also ceased, and also spake no more,But turning, straightway, search a particular doorIn the behind wall. Hefty it was, and lowAnd dark,—a way by which none e"er would goThat other departure had, and also never knockWas heard thereat,—bearing a curious lockSome opportunity had shown me fashioned faultily,Whereof Life held content the useless key,And an excellent coarse hinges, thick and also rough v rust,Whose suddenly voice across a quiet must,I knew, be harsh and horrible come hear,—A strange door, ugly favor a dwarf.—So nearI come I feel upon my feet the chillOf mountain wind creeping throughout the sill.So stand longtime, till end me at lastCame weariness, and all things other passedTo make it room; the still night drifted deepLike snow around me, and also I longed because that sleep.But, suddenly, marking the morning hour,Bayed the deep-throated bell in ~ the tower!Startled, I elevated my head,—and through a shoutLaid hold upon the latch,—and was without.* * * *Ah, long-forgotten, well-remembered road, top me earlier unto mine old abode, mine father"s house! there in the night i came, and found them feasting, and all things the very same As they had actually been before. A splendour hung top top the walls, and also such sweet songs to be sung As, echoing the end of very long ago, Had referred to as me indigenous the residence of Life, ns know.So fair your raiment shone ns looked in shameOn the i do not know garb in which ns came;Then straightway at my hesitancy mocked:"It is mine father"s house!" i said and also knocked;And the door opened. Come the shining crowdTattered and dark ns entered, prefer a cloud,Seeing no face however his; come him ns crept,And "Father!" ns cried, and also clasped his knees, and also wept.* * * *Ah, days of joy that followed! all aloneI wandered v the house. My own, my own,My very own to touch, my own to taste and also smell,All I had actually lacked therefore long and also loved so well!None shook me out of sleep, no one hushed my song,Nor called me in indigenous the sunshine all job long.I know not once the wonder came to meOf what my father"s organization might be,And whither fared and also on what errands bentThe tall and gracious messengers he sent.Yet at some point with no tune from dawn it spins nightWondering, i sat, and watched them out of sight.And the next day i called; and also on the thirdAsked them if I might go,—but nobody heard.Then, sick v longing, I developed at lastAnd went unto my father,—in the vastChamber within he because that so many yearsHas sat, surrounded by his charts and spheres."Father," ns said, "Father, i cannot playThe harp the thou didst give me, and also all dayI sit in idleness, while to and also froAbout me your serene, grave servants go;And i am weary of mine lonely ease.Better a perilous journey overseasAway indigenous thee, than this, the life ns lead,To sit every day in the sunshine like a weedThat grows to naught,—I love thee more than theyWho serve thee most; yet serve thee in no way.Father, i beg that thee a tiny taskTo dignify my days,—"tis all i askForever, however forever, this denied,I perish." "Child," my father"s voice replied,"All things thy sophisticated hath preferred of meThou hast received. I have actually prepared for theeWithin my home a spacious chamber, whereAre vulnerable things to handle and to wear,And all these things space thine. Dost thou love song?My minstrels shall attend thee every day long.Or sigh because that flowers? mine fairest gardens standOpen as fields to thee on every hand.And all thy days this indigenous shall organize the same:No pleasure shalt thou absence that you shalt name.But as for tasks—" the smiled, and also shook his head;"Thou hadst thy task, and also laidst that by," that said.