The Project Gutenberg EBook of The harp-weaver, and other poems, by Edna St. Vincent Millay 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 at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The harp-weaver, and other poems Author: Edna St. Vincent Millay Release Date: May 10, 2019 [EBook #59474] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HARP-WEAVER, AND OTHER POEMS *** Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues and Al Haines in memoriam of Marc D'Hooghe (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust.) THE HARP-WEAVER AND OTHER POEMS BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY HARPER&BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON BY THE SAME AUTHOR 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 PART ONE MY HEART BEING HUNGRY AUTUMN CHANT NUIT BLANCHE THREE SONGS FROM THE LAMP AND THE BELL THE WOOD ROAD FEAST SOUVENIR SCRUB THE GOOSE-GIRL THE DRAGONFLY PART TWO DEPARTURE THE RETURN FROM TOWN A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM THE SPRING AND THE FALL THE CURSE KEEN THE BETROTHAL HUMORESQUE THE POND THE BALLAD OF THE HARP-WEAVER PART THREE NEVER MAY THE FRUIT BE PLUCKED THE CONCERT HYACINTH TO ONE WHO MIGHT HAVE BORNE A MESSAGE SIEGE THE CAIRN SPRING SONG MEMORY OF CAPE COD PART FOUR SONNETS IV-I WHEN YOU, THAT AT THIS MOMENT IV-II THAT LOVE AT LENGTH SHOULD FIND IV-III LOVE IS NOT BLIND IV-IV I KNOW I AM BUT SUMMER IV-V I PRAY YOU IF YOU LOVE ME IV-VI PITY ME NOT IV-VII SOMETIMES WHEN I AM WEARIED IV-VIII OH, OH, YOU WILL BE SORRY IV-IX HERE IS A WOUND IV-X I SHALL GO BACK AGAIN IV-XI SAY WHAT YOU WILL IV-XII WHAT'S THIS OF DEATH IV-XIII I SEE SO CLEARLY IV-XIV YOUR FACE IS LIKE A CHAMBER IV-XV THE LIGHT COMES BACK IV-XVI LORD ARCHER, DEATH IV-XVII LOVING YOU LESS THAN LIFE IV-XVIII I, BEING BORN A WOMAN IV-XIX WHAT LIPS MY LIPS HAVE KISSED IV-XX STILL WILL I HARVEST BEAUTY IV-XXI HOW HEALTHILY THEIR FEET IV-XXII EUCLID ALONE HAS LOOKED PART FIVE SONNETS FROM AN UNGRAFTED TREE V-I SO SHE CAME BACK V-II THE LAST WHITE SAWDUST V-III SHE FILLED HER ARMS WITH WOOD V-IV THE WHITE BARK WRITHED V-V THE WAGON STOPPED BEFORE THE HOUSE V-VI THEN CAUTIOUSLY SHE PUSHED V-VII ONE WAY THERE WAS V-VIII SHE LET THEM LEAVE THEIR JELLIES V-IX NOT OVER-KIND NOR OVER-QUICK V-X SHE HAD FORGOTTEN V-XI IT CAME INTO HER MIND V-XII TENDERLY, IN THOSE TIMES V-XIII FROM THE WAN DREAM V-XIV SHE HAD A HORROR V-XV THERE WAS UPON THE SILL V-XVI THE DOCTOR ASKED HER V-XVII GAZING UPON HIM NOW PART ONE MY HEART, BEING HUNGRY 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. AUTUMN CHANT 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 NUIT BLANCHE 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. THREE SONGS FROM THE LAMP AND THE BELL I 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. II 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; III Rain comes down And hushes the town. And where is the voice that I heard crying? Snow settles Over the nettles. Where is the voice that I heard crying? Sand at last On the drifting mast. And where is the voice that I heard crying? Earth now On the busy brow. And where is the voice that I heard crying? THE WOOD ROAD If I were to walk this way Hand in hand with Grief, I should mark that maple-spray Coming into leaf. I should note how the old burrs Rot upon the ground. Yes, though Grief should know me hers While the world goes round, It could not in truth be said This was lost on me; A rock-maple showing red, Burrs beneath a tree. FEAST I drank at every vine. The last was like the first. I came upon no wine So wonderful as thirst. I gnawed at every root. I ate of every plant. I came upon no fruit So wonderful as want. Feed the grape and bean To the vintner and monger; I will lie down lean With my thirst and my hunger. SOUVENIR Just a rainy day or two In a windy tower, That was all I had of you-- Saving half an hour. Marred by greeting passing groups In a cinder walk, Near some naked blackberry hoops Dim with purple chalk. I remember three or four Things you said in spite, And an ugly coat you wore, Plaided black and white. Just a rainy day or two And a bitter word. Why do I remember you As a singing bird? SCRUB If I grow bitterly, Like a gnarled and stunted tree, Bearing harshly of my youth Puckered fruit that sears the mouth; If I make of my drawn boughs An inhospitable house, Out of which I never pry Towards the water and the sky, Under which I stand and hide And hear the day go by outside; It is that a wind too strong Bent my back when I was young, It is that I fear the rain Lest it blister me again. THE GOOSE-GIRL Spring rides no horses down the hill, But comes on foot, a goose-girl still. And all the loveliest things there be Come simply, so, it seems to me. If ever I said, in grief or pride, I tired of honest things, I lied; And should be cursed forevermore With Love in laces, like a whore, And neighbors cold, and friends unsteady, And Spring on horseback, like a lady! THE DRAGONFLY I wound myself in a white cocoon of singing, All day long in the brook's uneven bed, Measuring out my soul in a mucous thread; Dimly now to the brook's green bottom clinging, Men behold me, a worm spun-out and dead, Walled in an iron house of silky singing. Nevertheless at length, O reedy shallows, Not as a plodding nose to the slimy stem, But as a brazen wing with a spangled hem, Over the jewel-weed and the pink marshmallows, Free of these and making a song of them, I shall arise, and a song of the reedy shallows! PART TWO DEPARTURE It's little I care what path I take, And where it leads it's little I care; But out of this house, lest my heart break, I must go, and off somewhere. It's little I know what's in my heart, What's in my mind it's little I know, But there's that in me must up and start, And it's little I care where my feet go. I wish I could walk for a day and a night, And find me at dawn in a desolate place With never the rut of a road in sight, Nor the roof of a house, nor the eyes of a face. I wish I could walk till my blood should spout, And drop me, never to stir again, On a shore that is wide, for the tide is out, And the weedy rocks are bare to the rain. But dump or dock, where the path I take Brings up, it's little enough I care; And it's little I'd mind the fuss they'll make, Huddled dead in a ditch somewhere. "Is something the matter, dear," she said, "That you sit at your work so silently?" "No, mother, no, 'twas a knot in my thread. There goes the kettle, I'll make the tea." THE RETURN FROM TOWN As I sat down by Saddle Stream To bathe my dusty feet there, A boy was standing on the bridge Any girl would meet there. As I went over Woody Knob And dipped into the hollow, A youth was coming up the hill Any maid would follow. Then in I turned at my own gate,-- And nothing to be sad for-- To such a man as any wife Would pass a pretty lad for. A VISIT TO THE ASYLUM Once from a big, big building, When I was small, small, The queer folk in the windows Would smile at me and call. And in the hard wee gardens Such pleasant men would hoe: "Sir, may we touch the little girl's hair?"-- It was so red, you know. They cut me colored asters With shears so sharp and neat, They brought me grapes and plums and pears And pretty cakes to eat. And out of all the windows, No matter where we went, The merriest eyes would follow me And make me compliment. There were a thousand windows, All latticed up and down. And up to all the windows, When we went back to town, The queer folk put their faces, As gentle as could be; "Come again, little girl!" they called, and I Called back, "You come see me!" THE SPRING AND THE FALL In the spring of the year, in the spring of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The trees were black where the bark was wet. I see them yet, in the spring of the year. He broke me a bough of the blossoming peach That was out of the way and hard to reach. In the fall of the year, in the fall of the year, I walked the road beside my dear. The rooks went up with a raucous trill. I hear them still, in the fall of the year. He laughed at all I dared to praise, And broke my heart, in little ways. Year be springing or year be falling, The bark will drip and the birds be calling. There's much that's fine to see and hear In the spring of a year, in the fall of a year. 'Tis not love's going hurts my days, But that it went in little ways. THE CURSE Oh, lay my ashes on the wind That blows across the sea. And I shall meet a fisherman Out of Capri, And he will say, seeing me, "What a strange thing! Like a fish's scale or a Butterfly's wing." Oh, lay my ashes on the wind That blows away the fog. And I shall meet a farmer boy Leaping through the bog, And he will say, seeing me, "What a strange thing! Like a peat-ash or a Butterfly's wing." And I shall blow to your house And, sucked against the pane, See you take your sewing up And lay it down again. And you will say, seeing me, "What a strange thing! Like a plum petal or a Butterfly's wing." And none at all will know me That knew me well before. But I will settle at the root That climbs about your door, And fishermen and farmers May see me and forget, But I'll be a bitter berry In your brewing yet. KEEN Weep him dead and mourn as you may, Me, I sing as I must: Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble What would have sunk to dust! Blessed be Death, that took my love And buried him in the sea, Where never a lie nor a bitter word Will out of his mouth at me. This I have to hold to my heart, This to take by the hand: Sweet we were for a summer month As the sun on the dry white sand; Mild we were for a summer month As the wind from over the weirs. And blessed be Death, that hushed with salt The harsh and slovenly years! Who builds her a house with love for timber Builds her a house of foam. And I'd rather be bride to a lad gone down Than widow to one safe home. THE BETROTHAL Oh, come, my lad, or go, my lad, And love me if you like. I shall not hear the door shut Nor the knocker strike. Oh, bring me gifts or beg me gifts, And wed me if you will. I'd make a man a good wife, Sensible and still. And why should I be cold, my lad, And why should you repine, Because I love a dark head That never will be mine? I might as well be easing you As lie alone in bed And waste the night in wanting A cruel dark head. You might as well be calling yours What never will be his, And one of us be happy. There's few enough as is. HUMORESQUE "Heaven bless the babe!" they said. "What queer books she must have read!" (Love, by whom I was beguiled, Grant I may not bear a child.) "Little does she guess to-day What the world may be!" they say. (Snow, drift deep and cover Till the spring my murdered lover.) THE POND In this pond of placid water, Half a hundred years ago, So they say, a farmer's daughter, Jilted by her farmer beau, Waded out among the rushes, Scattering the blue dragon-flies; That dried stick the ripple washes Marks the spot, I should surmise. Think, so near the public highway, Well frequented even then! Can you not conceive the sly way,-- Hearing wheels or seeing men Passing on the road above,-- With a gesture feigned and silly, Ere she drowned herself for love, She would reach to pluck a lily? THE BALLAD OF THE HARP-WEAVER "Son," said my mother, When I was knee-high, "You've need of clothes to cover you, And not a rag have I. "There's nothing in the house To make a boy breeches, Nor shears to cut a cloth with Nor thread to take stitches. "There's nothing in the house But a loaf-end of rye, And a harp with a woman's head Nobody will buy," And she began to cry. That was in the early fall. When came the late fall, "Son," she said, "the sight of you Makes your mother's blood crawl,-- "Little skinny shoulder-blades Sticking through your clothes! And where you'll get a jacket from God above knows. "It's lucky for me, lad, Your daddy's in the ground, And can't see the way I let His son go around!" And she made a queer sound. That was in the late fall. When the winter came, I'd not a pair of breeches Nor a shirt to my name. I couldn't go to school, Or out of doors to play. And all the other little boys Passed our way. "Son," said my mother, "Come, climb into my lap, And I'll chafe your little bones While you take a nap." And, oh, but we were silly For half an hour or more, Me with my long legs Dragging on the floor, A-rock-rock-rocking To a mother-goose rhyme! Oh, but we were happy For half an hour's time! But there was I, a great boy, And what would folks say To hear my mother singing me To sleep all day, In such a daft way? Men say the winter Was bad that year; Fuel was scarce, And food was dear. A wind with a wolf's head Howled about our door, And we burned up the chairs And sat upon the floor. All that was left us Was a chair we couldn't break, And the harp with a woman's head Nobody would take, For song or pity's sake. The night before Christmas I cried with the cold, I cried myself to sleep Like a two-year-old. And in the deep night I felt my mother rise, And stare down upon me With love in her eyes. I saw my mother sitting On the one good chair, A light falling on her From I couldn't tell where, Looking nineteen, And not a day older, And the harp with a woman's head Leaned against her shoulder. Her thin fingers, moving In the thin, tall strings, Were weav-weav-weaving Wonderful things. Many bright threads, From where I couldn't see, Were running through the harp-strings Rapidly, And gold threads whistling Through my mother's hand. I saw the web grow, And the pattern expand. She wove a child's jacket, And when it was done She laid it on the floor And wove another one. She wove a red cloak So regal to see, "She's made it for a king's son," I said, "and not for me." But I knew it was for me. She wove a pair of breeches Quicker than that! She wove a pair of boots And a little cocked hat. She wove a pair of mittens, She wove a little blouse, She wove all night In the still, cold house. She sang as she worked, And the harp-strings spoke; Her voice never faltered, And the thread never broke. And when I awoke,-- There sat my mother With the harp against her shoulder, Looking nineteen And not a day older, A smile about her lips, And a light about her head, And her hands in the harp-strings Frozen dead. And piled up beside her And toppling to the skies, Were the clothes of a king's son, Just my size. PART THREE NEVER MAY THE FRUIT BE PLUCKED Never, never may the fruit be plucked from the bough And gathered into barrels. He that would eat of love must eat it where it hangs. Though the branches bend like reeds, Though the ripe fruit splash in the grass or wrinkle on the tree, He that would eat of love may bear away with him Only what his belly can hold, Nothing in the apron, Nothing in the pockets. Never, never may the fruit be gathered from the bough And harvested in barrels. The winter of love is a cellar of empty bins, In an orchard soft with rot. THE CONCERT No, I will go alone. I will come back when it's over. Yes, of course I love you. No, it will not be long. Why may you not come with me?-- You are too much my lover. You would put yourself Between me and song. If I go alone, Quiet and suavely clothed, My body will die in its chair, And over my head a flame, A mind that is twice my own, Will mark with icy mirth The wise advance and retreat Of armies without a country, Storming a nameless gate, Hurling terrible javelins down From the shouting walls of a singing town Where no women wait! Armies clean of love and hate, Marching lines of pitiless sound Climbing hills to the sun and hurling Golden spears to the ground! Up the lines a silver runner Bearing a banner whereon is scored The milk and steel of a bloodless wound Healed at length by the sword! You and I have nothing to do with music. We may not make of music a filigree frame, Within which you and I, Tenderly glad we came, Sit smiling, hand in hand. Come now, be content. I will come back to you, I swear I will; And you will know me still. I shall be only a little taller Than when I went. HYACINTH I am in love with him to whom a hyacinth is dearer Than I shall ever be dear. On nights when the field-mice are abroad he cannot sleep: He hears their narrow teeth at the bulbs of his hyacinths. But the gnawing at my heart he does not hear. TO ONE WHO MIGHT HAVE BORNE A MESSAGE Had I known that you were going I would have given you messages for her, Now two years dead, Whom I shall always love. As it is, should she entreat you how it goes with me, You must reply, as well as with most, you fancy; That I love easily, and pass the time. And she will not know how all day long between My life and me her shadow intervenes, A young thin girl, Wearing a white skirt and a purple sweater And a narrow pale blue ribbon about her hair. I used to say to her, "I love you Because your face is such a pretty color, No other reason." But it was not true. Oh, had I only known that you were going, I could have given you messages for her! SIEGE This I do, being mad: Gather baubles about me, Sit in a circle of toys, and all the time Death beating the door in. White jade and an orange pitcher, Hindu idol, Chinese god,-- Maybe next year, when I'm richer-- Carved beads and a lotus pod.... And all this time Death beating the door in. THE CAIRN When I think of the little children learning In all the schools of the world, Learning in Danish, learning in Japanese That two and two are four, and where the rivers of the world Rise, and the names of the mountains and the principal cities, My heart breaks. Come up, children! Toss your little stones gaily On the great cairn of Knowledge! (Where lies what Euclid knew, a little gray stone, What Plato, what Pascal, what Galileo: Little gray stones, little gray stones on a cairn.) Tell me, what is the name of the highest mountain? Name me a crater of fire! a peak of snow! Name me the mountains on the moon! But the name of the mountain that you climb all day, Ask not your teacher that. SPRING SONG I know why the yellow forsythia Holds its breath and will not bloom, And the robin thrusts his beak in his wing. Want me to tell you? Think you can bear it? Cover your eyes with your hand and hear it. You know how cold the days are still? And everybody saying how late the Spring is? Well--cover your eyes with your hand--the thing is, There isn't going to be any Spring. No parking here! No parking here! They said to Spring: No parking here! Spring came on as she always does, Laid her hand on the yellow forsythia,-- Little boys turned in their sleep and smiled, Dreaming of marbles, dreaming of agates; Little girls leapt from their beds to see Spring come by with her painted wagons, Colored wagons creaking with wonder-- Laid her hand on the robin's throat; When up comes you-know-who, my dear, You-know-who in a fine blue coat, And says to Spring: No parking here! No parking here! No parking here! Move on! Move on! No parking here! Come walk with me in the city gardens. (Better keep an eye out for you-know-who) Did ever you see such a sickly showing?-- Middle of June, and nothing growing; The gardeners peer and scratch their heads And drop their sweat on the tulip-beds, But not a blade thrusts through. Come, move on! Don't you know how to walk? No parking here! And no back-talk! Oh, well--hell, it's all for the best. She certainly made a lot of clutter, Dropping petals under the trees, Taking your mind off your bread and butter. Anyhow, it's nothing to me. I can remember, and so can you. (Though we'd better watch out for you-know-who, When we sit around remembering Spring). We shall hardly notice in a year or two. You can get accustomed to anything. MEMORY OF CAPE COD The wind in the ash-tree sounds like surf on the shore at Truro. I will shut my eyes . . . hush, be still with your silly bleating, sheep on Shillingstone Hill . . . They said: Come along! They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand and come along, it's long after sunset! The mosquitoes will be thick in the pine-woods along by Long Nook, the wind's died down! They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand, and your shells, too, and come along, we'll find you another beach like the beach at Truro. Let me listen to wind in the ash ... it sounds like surf on the shore. PART FOUR SONNETS IV-I WHEN YOU, THAT AT THIS MOMENT When you, that at this moment are to me Dearer than words on paper, shall depart, And be no more the warder of my heart, Whereof again myself shall hold the key; And be no more--what now you seem to be-- The sun, from which all excellences start In a round nimbus, nor a broken dart Of moonlight, even, splintered on the sea; I shall remember only of this hour-- And weep somewhat, as now you see me weep-- The pathos of your love, that, like a flower, Fearful of death yet amorous of sleep, Droops for a moment and beholds, dismayed, The wind whereon its petals shall be laid. IV-II THAT LOVE AT LENGTH SHOULD FIND