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Edna St. Vincent Millay (Эдна Сент-Винсент Миллей)


* * *


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.



Edna St. Vincent Millay's other poems:
  1. Weeds
  2. The Plaid Dress
  3. The Merry Maid
  4. The Shroud
  5. Scrub


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