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Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay


Mist in the Valley


These hills, to hurt me more,
That am hurt already enough, 
Having left the sea behind,
Having turned suddenly and left the shore
That I had loved beyond all words, even a songs words, to convey,

And built me a house on upland acres,
Sweet with the pinxter, bright and rough
With the rusty blackbird long before the winters done,
But smelling never of bayberry hot in the sun,
Nor ever loud with the pounding of the long white breakers, 

These hills, beneath the October moon,
Sit in the valley white with mist
Like islands in a quiet bay,

Jut out from shore into the mist,
Wooded with poplar dark as pine,
Like points of land into a quiet bay.

(Just in the way
The harbour met the bay)

Stricken too sore for tears,
I stand, remembering the Islands and the seas lost sound 
Life at its best no longer than the sand-peeps cry,
And I two years, two years,
Tilling an upland ground!



Edna St. Vincent Millay


Edna St. Vincent Millay's other poems:
  1. The Return from Town
  2. To S. M.
  3. Journey
  4. When the Year Grows Old
  5. Inland


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