Beauty never slumbers; All is in her name; But the rose remembers The dust from which it came.

She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.

I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death; I am not on his pay-roll.

And what are you that, missing you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for your sake? And what are you that, missing you, As many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind And looking at the wall? I know a man that’s a braver man And twenty men as kind, And what are you, that you should be The one man in my mind? Yet women’s ways are witless ways, As any sage will tell,— And what am I, that I should love So wisely and so well?

A Poem from Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?

Ah, I could lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me

I had a little sorrow, Born of a little sin.