The harp-weaver, and other poems

AND OTHER POEMS
BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
HARPER&BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON
RENASCENCE AND OTHER POEMS A FEW FIGS FROM THISTLES SECOND APRIL THREE PLAYS ARIA DA CAPO TWO SLATTERNS AND A KING THE LAMP AND THE BELL THE KING'S HENCHMAN
TO MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
My heart, being hungry, feeds on food The fat of heart despise. Beauty where beauty never stood, And sweet where no sweet lies I gather to my querulous need, Having a growing heart to feed. It may be, when my heart is dull, Having attained its girth, I shall not find so beautiful The meagre shapes of earth, Nor linger in the rain to mark The smell of tansy through the dark.
Now the autumn shudders In the rose's root. Far and wide the ladders Lean among the fruit. Now the autumn clambers Up the trellised frame, And the rose remembers The dust from which it came. Brighter than the blossom On the rose's bough Sits the wizened, orange, Bitter berry now; Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers
I am a shepherd of those sheep That climb a wall by night, One after one, until I sleep, Or the black pane goes white. Because of which I cannot see A flock upon a hill, But doubts come tittering up to me That should by day be still. And childish griefs I have outgrown Into my eyes are thrust, Till my dull tears go dropping down Like lead into the dust.
Oh, little rose tree, bloom! Summer is nearly over. The dahlias bleed, and the phlox is seed. Nothing's left of the clover. And the path of the poppy no one knows. I would blossom if I were a rose. Summer, for all your guile, Will brown in a week to Autumn, And launched leaves throw a shadow below Over the brook's clear bottom,-- And the chariest bud the year can boast Be brought to bloom by the chastening frost.
Beat me a crown of bluer metal; Fret it with stones of a foreign style: The heart grows weary after a little Of what it loved for a little while. Weave me a robe of richer fibre; Pattern its web with a rare device. Give away to the child of a neighbor This gold gown I was glad in twice. But buy me a singer to sing one song-- Song about nothing--song about sheep-- Over and over, all day long;