The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSecond AprilThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Second AprilAuthor: Edna St. Vincent MillayRelease date: March 1, 1998 [eBook #1247]Most recently updated: October 29, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND APRIL ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Second AprilAuthor: Edna St. Vincent MillayRelease date: March 1, 1998 [eBook #1247]Most recently updated: October 29, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger
Title: Second April
Author: Edna St. Vincent Millay
Author: Edna St. Vincent Millay
Release date: March 1, 1998 [eBook #1247]Most recently updated: October 29, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Judy Boss, and David Widger
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SECOND APRIL ***
CONTENTSSECOND APRILSPRINGCITY TREESTHE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOGJOURNEYEEL-GRASSELEGY BEFORE DEATHTHE BEAN-STALKWEEDSPASSER MORTUUS ESTPASTORALASSAULTTRAVELLOW-TIDESONG OF A SECOND APRILROSEMARYTHE POET AND HIS BOOKALMSINLANDTO A POET THAT DIED YOUNGWRAITHEBBELAINEBURIALMARIPOSATHE LITTLE HILLDOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERONLAMENTEXILEDTHE DEATH OF AUTUMNODE TO SILENCEEPITAPHPRAYER TO PERSEPHONECHORUSELEGYDIRGESONNETSWILD SWANS
CONTENTS
SECOND APRIL
SPRING
CITY TREES
THE BLUE-FLAG IN THE BOG
JOURNEY
EEL-GRASS
ELEGY BEFORE DEATH
THE BEAN-STALK
WEEDS
PASSER MORTUUS EST
PASTORAL
ASSAULT
TRAVEL
LOW-TIDE
SONG OF A SECOND APRIL
ROSEMARY
THE POET AND HIS BOOK
ALMS
INLAND
TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG
WRAITH
EBB
ELAINE
BURIAL
MARIPOSA
THE LITTLE HILL
DOUBT NO MORE THAT OBERON
LAMENT
EXILED
THE DEATH OF AUTUMN
ODE TO SILENCE
EPITAPH
PRAYER TO PERSEPHONE
CHORUS
ELEGY
DIRGE
SONNETS
WILD SWANS
To what purpose, April, do you return again?Beauty is not enough.You can no longer quiet me with the rednessOf little leaves opening stickily.I know what I know.The sun is hot on my neck as I observeThe spikes of the crocus.The smell of the earth is good.It is apparent that there is no death.But what does that signify?Not only under ground are the brains of menEaten by maggots,Life in itselfIs nothing,An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,AprilComes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
The trees along this city street,Save for the traffic and the trains,Would make a sound as thin and sweetAs trees in country lanes.And people standing in their shadeOut of a shower, undoubtedlyWould hear such music as is madeUpon a country tree.Oh, little leaves that are so dumbAgainst the shrieking city air,I watch you when the wind has come,—I know what sound is there.
God had called us, and we came;Our loved Earth to ashes left;Heaven was a neighbor's house,Open to us, bereft.Gay the lights of Heaven showed,And 'twas God who walked ahead;Yet I wept along the road,Wanting my own house instead.Wept unseen, unheeded cried,"All you things my eyes have kissed,Fare you well! We meet no more,Lovely, lovely tattered mist!Weary wings that rise and fallAll day long above the fire!"—Red with heat was every wall,Rough with heat was every wire—"Fare you well, you little windsThat the flying embers chase!Fare you well, you shuddering day,With your hands before your face!And, ah, blackened by strange blight,Or to a false sun unfurled,Now forevermore goodbye,All the gardens in the world!On the windless hills of Heaven,That I have no wish to see,White, eternal lilies stand,By a lake of ebony.But the Earth forevermoreIs a place where nothing grows,—Dawn will come, and no bud break;Evening, and no blossom close.Spring will come, and wander slowOver an indifferent land,Stand beside an empty creek,Hold a dead seed in her hand."God had called us, and we came,But the blessed road I trodWas a bitter road to me,And at heart I questioned God."Though in Heaven," I said, "be allThat the heart would most desire,Held Earth naught save souls of sinnersWorth the saving from a fire?Withered grass,—the wasted growing!Aimless ache of laden boughs!"Little things God had forgottenCalled me, from my burning house."Though in Heaven," I said, "be allThat the eye could ask to see,All the things I ever knewAre this blaze in back of me.""Though in Heaven," I said, "be allThat the ear could think to lack,All the things I ever knewAre this roaring at my back."It was God who walked ahead,Like a shepherd to the fold;In his footsteps fared the weak,And the weary and the old,Glad enough of gladness over,Ready for the peace to be,—But a thing God had forgottenWas the growing bones of me.And I drew a bit apart,And I lagged a bit behind,And I thought on Peace Eternal,Lest He look into my mind:And I gazed upon the sky,And I thought of Heavenly Rest,—And I slipped away like waterThrough the fingers of the blest!All their eyes were fixed on Glory,Not a glance brushed over me;"Alleluia! Alleluia!"Up the road,—and I was free.And my heart rose like a freshet,And it swept me on before,Giddy as a whirling stick,Till I felt the earth once more.All the earth was charred and black,Fire had swept from pole to pole;And the bottom of the seaWas as brittle as a bowl;And the timbered mountain-topWas as naked as a skull,—Nothing left, nothing left,Of the Earth so beautiful!"Earth," I said, "how can I leave you?""You are all I have," I said;"What is left to take my mind up,Living always, and you dead?""Speak!" I said, "Oh, tell me something!Make a sign that I can see!For a keepsake! To keep always!Quick!—before God misses me!"And I listened for a voice;—But my heart was all I heard;Not a screech-owl, not a loon,Not a tree-toad said a word.And I waited for a sign;—Coals and cinders, nothing more;And a little cloud of smokeFloating on a valley floor.And I peered into the smokeTill it rotted, like a fog:—There, encompassed round by fire,Stood a blue-flag in a bog!Little flames came wading out,Straining, straining towards its stem,But it was so blue and tallThat it scorned to think of them!Red and thirsty were their tongues,As the tongues of wolves must be,But it was so blue and tall—Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!All my heart became a tear,All my soul became a tower,Never loved I anythingAs I loved that tall blue flower!It was all the little boatsThat had ever sailed the sea,It was all the little booksThat had gone to school with me;On its roots like iron clawsRearing up so blue and tall,—It was all the gallant EarthWith its back against a wall!In a breath, ere I had breathed,—Oh, I laughed, I cried, to see!—I was kneeling at its side,And it leaned its head on me!Crumbling stones and sliding sandIs the road to Heaven now;Icy at my straining kneesDrags the awful under-tow;Soon but stepping-stones of dustWill the road to Heaven be,—Father, Son and Holy Ghost,Reach a hand and rescue me!"There—there, my blue-flag flower;Hush—hush—go to sleep;That is only God you hear,Counting up His folded sheep!Lullabye—lullabye—That is only God that calls,Missing me, seeking me,Ere the road to nothing falls!He will set His mighty feetFirmly on the sliding sand;Like a little frightened birdI will creep into His hand;I will tell Him all my grief,I will tell Him all my sin;He will give me half His robeFor a cloak to wrap you in.Lullabye—lullabye—"Rocks the burnt-out planet free!—Father, Son and Holy Ghost,Reach a hand and rescue me!Ah, the voice of love at last!Lo, at last the face of light!And the whole of His white robeFor a cloak against the night!And upon my heart asleepAll the things I ever knew!—"Holds Heaven not some cranny, Lord,For a flower so tall and blue?"All's well and all's well!Gay the lights of Heaven show!In some moist and Heavenly placeWe will set it out to grow.
Ah, could I lay me down in this long grassAnd close my eyes, and let the quiet windBlow over me—I am so tired, so tiredOf passing pleasant places! All my life,Following Care along the dusty road,Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed;Yet at my hand an unrelenting handTugged ever, and I passed. All my life longOver my shoulder have I looked at peace;And now I fain would lie in this long grassAnd close my eyes.Yet onward!Cat birds callThrough the long afternoon, and creeks at duskAre guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry,Drawing the twilight close about their throats.Only my heart makes answer. Eager vinesGo up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-treesPause in their dance and break the ring for me;Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fernAnd bayberry, that through sweet bevies threadOf round-faced roses, pink and petulant,Look back and beckon ere they disappear.Only my heart, only my heart responds.Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either sideAll through the dragging day,—sharp underfootAnd hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs—But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach,And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling,The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake,Broad field, bright flower, and the long white roadA gateless garden, and an open path:My feet to follow, and my heart to hold.
No matter what I say,All that I really loveIs the rain that flattens on the bay,And the eel-grass in the cove;The jingle-shells that lie and bleachAt the tide-line, and the traceOf higher tides along the beach:Nothing in this place.
There will be rose and rhododendronWhen you are dead and under ground;Still will be heard from white syringasHeavy with bees, a sunny sound;Still will the tamaracks be rainingAfter the rain has ceased, and stillWill there be robins in the stubble,Brown sheep upon the warm green hill.Spring will not ail nor autumn falter;Nothing will know that you are gone,Saving alone some sullen plough-landNone but yourself sets foot upon;Saving the may-weed and the pig-weedNothing will know that you are dead,—These, and perhaps a useless wagonStanding beside some tumbled shed.Oh, there will pass with your great passingLittle of beauty not your own,—Only the light from common water,Only the grace from simple stone!
Ho, Giant! This is I!I have built me a bean-stalk into your sky!La,—but it's lovely, up so high!This is how I came,—I putHere my knee, there my foot,Up and up, from shoot to shoot—And the blessed bean-stalk thinningLike the mischief all the time,Till it took me rocking, spinning,In a dizzy, sunny circle,Making angles with the root,Far and out above the cackleOf the city I was born in,Till the little dirty cityIn the light so sheer and sunnyShone as dazzling bright and prettyAs the money that you findIn a dream of finding money—What a wind! What a morning!—Till the tiny, shiny city,When I shot a glance below,Shaken with a giddy laughter,Sick and blissfully afraid,Was a dew-drop on a blade,And a pair of moments afterWas the whirling guess I made,—And the wind was like a whipCracking past my icy ears,And my hair stood out behind,And my eyes were full of tears,Wide-open and cold,More tears than they could hold,The wind was blowing so,And my teeth were in a row,Dry and grinning,And I felt my foot slip,And I scratched the wind and whined,And I clutched the stalk and jabbered,With my eyes shut blind,—What a wind! What a wind!Your broad sky, Giant,Is the shelf of a cupboard;I make bean-stalks, I'mA builder, like yourself,But bean-stalks is my trade,I couldn't make a shelf,Don't know how they're made,Now, a bean-stalk is more pliant—La, what a climb!
White with daisies and red with sorrelAnd empty, empty under the sky!—Life is a quest and love a quarrel—Here is a place for me to lie.Daisies spring from damned seeds,And this red fire that here I seeIs a worthless crop of crimson weeds,Cursed by farmers thriftily.But here, unhated for an hour,The sorrel runs in ragged flame,The daisy stands, a bastard flower,Like flowers that bear an honest name.And here a while, where no wind bringsThe baying of a pack athirst,May sleep the sleep of blessed things,The blood too bright, the brow accurst.
Death devours all lovely things;Lesbia with her sparrowShares the darkness,—presentlyEvery bed is narrow.Unremembered as old rainDries the sheer libation,And the little petulant handIs an annotation.After all, my erstwhile dear,My no longer cherished,Need we say it was not love,Now that love is perished?
If it were only still!—With far away the shrillCrying of a cock;Or the shaken bellFrom a cow's throatMoving through the bushes;Or the soft shockOf wizened apples fallingFrom an old treeIn a forgotten orchardUpon the hilly rock!Oh, grey hill,Where the grazing herdLicks the purple blossom,Crops the spiky weed!Oh, stony pasture,Where the tall mulleinStands up so sturdyOn its little seed!
II had forgotten how the frogs must soundAfter a year of silence, else I thinkI should not so have ventured forth aloneAt dusk upon this unfrequented road.
III am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walkBetween me and the crying of the frogs?Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,That am a timid woman, on her wayFrom one house to another!
The railroad track is miles away,And the day is loud with voices speaking,Yet there isn't a train goes by all dayBut I hear its whistle shrieking.All night there isn't a train goes by,Though the night is still for sleep and dreamingBut I see its cinders red on the sky,And hear its engine steaming.My heart is warm with the friends I make,And better friends I'll not be knowing,Yet there isn't a train I wouldn't take,No matter where it's going.
These wet rocks where the tide has been,Barnacled white and weeded brownAnd slimed beneath to a beautiful green,These wet rocks where the tide went downWill show again when the tide is highFaint and perilous, far from shore,No place to dream, but a place to die,—The bottom of the sea once more.There was a child that wandered throughA giant's empty house all day,—House full of wonderful things and new,But no fit place for a child to play.
April this year, not otherwiseThan April of a year ago,Is full of whispers, full of sighs,Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;Hepaticas that pleased you soAre here again, and butterflies.There rings a hammering all day,And shingles lie about the doors;In orchards near and far awayThe grey wood-pecker taps and bores;The men are merry at their chores,And children earnest at their play.The larger streams run still and deep,Noisy and swift the small brooks runAmong the mullein stalks the sheepGo up the hillside in the sun,Pensively,—only you are gone,You that alone I cared to keep.
For the sake of some thingsThat be now no moreI will strew rushesOn my chamber-floor,I will plant bergamotAt my kitchen-door.For the sake of dim thingsThat were once so plainI will set a barrelOut to catch the rain,I will hang an iron potOn an iron crane.Many things be dead and goneThat were brave and gay;For the sake of these thingsI will learn to say,"An it please you, gentle sirs,""Alack!" and "Well-a-day!"
Down, you mongrel, Death!Back into your kennel!I have stolen breathIn a stalk of fennel!You shall scratch and you shall whineMany a night, and you shall worryMany a bone, before you buryOne sweet bone of mine!When shall I be dead?When my flesh is withered,And above my headYellow pollen gatheredAll the empty afternoon?When sweet lovers pause and wonderWho am I that lie thereunder,Hidden from the moon?This my personal death?—That lungs be failingTo inhale the breathOthers are exhaling?This my subtle spirit's end?—Ah, when the thawed winter splashesOver these chance dust and ashes,Weep not me, my friend!Me, by no means deadIn that hour, but surelyWhen this book, unread,Rots to earth obscurely,And no more to any breast,Close against the clamorous swellingOf the thing there is no telling,Are these pages pressed!When this book is mould,And a book of manyWaiting to be soldFor a casual penny,In a little open case,In a street unclean and cluttered,Where a heavy mud is spatteredFrom the passing drays,Stranger, pause and look;From the dust of agesLift this little book,Turn the tattered pages,Read me, do not let me die!Search the fading letters, findingSteadfast in the broken bindingAll that once was I!When these veins are weeds,When these hollowed socketsWatch the rooty seedsBursting down like rockets,And surmise the spring again,Or, remote in that black cupboard,Watch the pink worms writhing upwardAt the smell of rain,Boys and girls that lieWhispering in the hedges,Do not let me die,Mix me with your pledges;Boys and girls that slowly walkIn the woods, and weep, and quarrel,Staring past the pink wild laurel,Mix me with your talk,Do not let me die!Farmers at your raking,When the sun is high,While the hay is making,When, along the stubble strewn,Withering on their stalks uneaten,Strawberries turn dark and sweetenIn the lapse of noon;Shepherds on the hills,In the pastures, drowsingTo the tinkling bellsOf the brown sheep browsing;Sailors crying through the storm;Scholars at your study; huntersLost amid the whirling winter'sWhiteness uniform;Men that long for sleep;Men that wake and revel;—If an old song leapTo your senses' levelAt such moments, may it beSometimes, though a moment only,Some forgotten, quaint and homelyVehicle of me!Women at your toil,Women at your leisureTill the kettle boil,Snatch of me your pleasure,Where the broom-straw marks the leaf;Women quiet with your weepingLest you wake a workman sleeping,Mix me with your grief!Boys and girls that stealFrom the shocking laughterOf the old, to kneelBy a dripping rafterUnder the discolored eaves,Out of trunks with hingeless coversLifting tales of saints and lovers,Travelers, goblins, thieves,Suns that shine by night,Mountains made from valleys,—Bear me to the light,Flat upon your belliesBy the webby window lie,Where the little flies are crawling,—Read me, margin me with scrawling,Do not let me die!Sexton, ply your trade!In a shower of gravelStamp upon your spade!Many a rose shall ravel,Many a metal wreath shall rustIn the rain, and I go singingThrough the lots where you are flingingYellow clay on dust!
My heart is what it was before,A house where people come and go;But it is winter with your love,The sashes are beset with snow.I light the lamp and lay the cloth,I blow the coals to blaze again;But it is winter with your love,The frost is thick upon the pane.I know a winter when it comes:The leaves are listless on the boughs;I watched your love a little while,And brought my plants into the house.I water them and turn them south,I snap the dead brown from the stem;But it is winter with your love,—I only tend and water them.There was a time I stood and watchedThe small, ill-natured sparrows' fray;I loved the beggar that I fed,I cared for what he had to say,I stood and watched him out of sight;Today I reach around the doorAnd set a bowl upon the step;My heart is what it was before,But it is winter with your love;I scatter crumbs upon the sill,And close the window,—and the birdsMay take or leave them, as they will.
People that build their houses inland,People that buy a plot of groundShaped like a house, and build a house there,Far from the sea-board, far from the soundOf water sucking the hollow ledges,Tons of water striking the shore,—What do they long for, as I long forOne salt smell of the sea once more?People the waves have not awakened,Spanking the boats at the harbor's head,What do they long for, as I long for,—Starting up in my inland bed,Beating the narrow walls, and findingNeither a window nor a door,Screaming to God for death by drowning,—One salt taste of the sea once more?
Minstrel, what have you to doWith this man that, after you,Sharing not your happy fate,Sat as England's Laureate?Vainly, in these iron days,Strives the poet in your praise,Minstrel, by whose singing sideBeauty walked, until you died.Still, though none should hark again,Drones the blue-fly in the pane,Thickly crusts the blackest moss,Blows the rose its musk across,Floats the boat that is forgotNone the less to Camelot.Many a bard's untimely deathLends unto his verses breath;Here's a song was never sung:Growing old is dying young.Minstrel, what is this to you:That a man you never knew,When your grave was far and green,Sat and gossipped with a queen?Thalia knows how rare a thingIs it, to grow old and sing;When a brown and tepid tideCloses in on every side.Who shall say if Shelley's goldHad withstood it to grow old?
"Thin Rain, whom are you haunting,That you haunt my door?"—Surely it is not I she's wanting;Someone living here before—"Nobody's in the house but me:You may come in if you like and see."Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,—Have you seen her, any of you?—Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind,And the garden showing through?Glimmering eyes,—and silent, mostly,Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr,Asking something, asking it over,If you get a sound from her.—Ever see her, any of you?—Strangest thing I've ever known,—Every night since I moved in,And I came to be alone."Thin Rain, hush with your knocking!You may not come in!This is I that you hear rocking;Nobody's with me, nor has been!"Curious, how she tried the window,—Odd, the way she tries the door,—Wonder just what sort of peopleCould have had this house before . . .
I know what my heart is likeSince your love died:It is like a hollow ledgeHolding a little poolLeft there by the tide,A little tepid pool,Drying inward from the edge.
OH, come again to Astolat!I will not ask you to be kind.And you may go when you will go,And I will stay behind.I will not say how dear you are,Or ask you if you hold me dear,Or trouble you with things for youThe way I did last year.So still the orchard, Lancelot,So very still the lake shall be,You could not guess—though you should guess—What is become of me.So wide shall be the garden-walk,The garden-seat so very wide,You needs must think—if you should think—The lily maid had died.Save that, a little way away,I'd watch you for a little while,To see you speak, the way you speak,And smile,—if you should smile.
Mine is a body that should die at sea!And have for a grave, instead of a graveSix feet deep and the length of me,All the water that is under the wave!And terrible fishes to seize my flesh,Such as a living man might fear,And eat me while I am firm and fresh,—Not wait till I've been dead for a year!
Butterflies are white and blueIn this field we wander through.Suffer me to take your hand.Death comes in a day or two.All the things we ever knewWill be ashes in that hour,Mark the transient butterfly,How he hangs upon the flower.Suffer me to take your hand.Suffer me to cherish youTill the dawn is in the sky.Whether I be false or true,Death comes in a day or two.
OH, here the air is sweet and still,And soft's the grass to lie on;And far away's the little hillThey took for Christ to die on.And there's a hill across the brook,And down the brook's another;But, oh, the little hill they took,—I think I am its mother!The moon that saw Gethsemane,I watch it rise and set:It has so many things to see,They help it to forget.But little hills that sit at homeSo many hundred years,Remember Greece, remember Rome,Remember Mary's tears.And far away in Palestine,Sadder than any other,Grieves still the hill that I call mine,—I think I am its mother!
Doubt no more that Oberon—Never doubt that PanLived, and played a reed, and ranAfter nymphs in a dark forest,In the merry, credulous days,—Lived, and led a fairy bandOver the indulgent land!Ah, for in this dourest, sorestAge man's eye has looked upon,Death to fauns and death to fays,Still the dog-wood dares to raise—Healthy tree, with trunk and root—Ivory bowls that bear no fruit,And the starlings and the jays—Birds that cannot even sing—Dare to come again in spring!