A Few Figs from Thistles

Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Project Gutenberg's A Few Figs from Thistles, by Edna St. Vincent MillayThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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.netTitle: A Few Figs from ThistlesAuthor: Edna St. Vincent MillayPosting Date: July 26, 2009 [EBook #4399] Release Date: August, 2003 First Posted: January 26, 2002Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A FEW FIGS FROM THISTLES ***Produced by David StarnerA Few Figs from ThistlesPoems and SonnetsbyEdna St. Vincent MillayThanks are due to the editors of Ainslie's, The Dial, Pearson's Poetry, Reedy's Mirror, and Vanity Fair, for their kindpermission to republish various of these poems.This edition of "A Few Figs from Thistles" contains several poems not included in earlier editions.First Fig My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— It gives a lovely light!Second Fig Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!Recuerdo We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the ...

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• Publié par: chuif
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 31
• Langue: English

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Project Gutenberg's A Few Figs from Thistles, by Edna St. Vincent Millay This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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.net Title: A Few Figs from Thistles Author: Edna St. Vincent Millay Posting Date: July 26, 2009 [EBook #4399] Release Date: August, 2003 First Posted: January 26, 2002 Language: English * E * B *  O ST O A K  R A T     F O E F W  T  F H I I G S  S P  F R R O O JE M C  T T  H G IS U T T L E E N S B  * E ** RG Produced by David Starner

A Few Figs from Thistles Poems and Sonnets yb Edna St. Vincent Millay P Th e a ar n s k o s  n' a s r   e P  d o u et e r   y t , o     R th e e e   d e y d ' i s t   or M s ir   r o o f  r, A   i a n n sl d i   e' V s a ,  n T it h y  e  F D a i ir a , l, for their kind permission to republish various of these poems. s T e hi v s e   r e a d l  it p io o n e   m of s     " n A o   t F  i e n w c   lu Fi d g e s d  f  i r n o   m e   ar T li h e i r s   tl e e d s it " i   o c n o s n . tains First Fig          M  It y     w c i a ll  n n dl o e t    l b a u s r t  n t s h   e a   t  ni b g o h t t h ;  ends;           B  I u t  t  g a iv h e ,  s  m a y     l f o o v e e s l , y    l a ig n h d t   ! oh, my friends— Second Fig   Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:   Come and see my shining palace built upon the !dnas

Recuerdo   We were very tired, we were very merry—         It W  w e  a h s a   d b   a g r o e  n a e n  b d  a b c r k i   g a h n t, d     a f n or d t   h s   m all e   ll n e ig d  h l t i   k o e n     a t   h st e  a f b e l r e ry — .   But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,         A W n e d     l t a h y e     o w n  h a is   t h l i e ll- s t   o k p e   p u t  n b d l e o r w n i e n a g t ,  h a  t n h d e     th m e o   o d n a ; wn came soon.   We were very tired, we were very merry—   We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;   And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,   From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;   And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,   And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.   We were very tired, we were very merry,   We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.   We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl- covered head,   And bought a morning paper, which neither of us ;daer   And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,   And we gave her all our money but our subway fares. Thursday

         A   n W d e  i l f l,     I  w lo h v a e t  d i   s  y t o h u a   t  W to e   d y n o e u s ? day,           I    d S o o     n m o u t  c lo h  v i e s    t y r o u u e   . Thursday—          A  I n s d     m w o h r y e     y th o a u  n c  I o  c m a e n     c s o e m e. plaining   I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what     Is that to me? To the Not Impossible Him           H  T o o w     C s a h i a r l o l    I a  k n n d  o C w, a   t u h n a l y e , ss I go            W Is h   e b t l h e e st r     i o n r     e n v o e t  r t y h   i w s  a b y le ? ssed spot         N  I o s  w t   h it i   s  m b a e y n   e b a e t ,  h t   h m e  y f   l n o o w s e e r ;  for me           H  T o h w e     s C h a al r l t  I h  t a e g l i l, n   i u a n n l   e ro ss s   e I  ? smell          T   h N e o     f p a o br w i e c  r  o s f  h m al y l   f di ai m t   hf o u r  l  r l a o v v e e l           W  If h   i I l   s s t  h I  o s u t l a d  y  e h v e e r r  e t , ra — v b e u l! t oh, my dear, Macdougal Street   As I went walking up and down to take the evening air,

    (Sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy?)         I      ( s " a Li w t   tl h e i   m d   ir l t a y y     L h a is ti   n h   a c n hi d l   d u ,  p le o t n  t   h h e e   r l   a to d r y n     b b y l ! a ") ck hair;   The women squatting on the stoops were slovenly and fat,     (Lay me out in organdie, lay me out in lawn!)   And everywhere I stepped there was a baby or a ;tac     (Lord God in Heaven, will it never be dawn?)   The fruit-carts and clam-carts were ribald as a ,riaf     (Pink nets and wet shells trodden under heel)   She had haggled from the fruit-man of his rotting ;eraw     (I shall never get to sleep, the way I feel!)   He walked like a king through the filth and the clutter,     (Sweet to meet upon the street, why did you glance me by?)   But he caught the quaint Italian quip she flung him from the gutter;     (What can there be to cry about that I should lie and cry?)   He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,     (I wish I were a ragged child with ear-rings in my ears!)   And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;     (Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)

The Singing-Woman from the Wood's Edge   What should I be but a prophet and a liar,   Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?   Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,   What should I be but the fiend's god-daughter?   And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,   That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a ?gob   And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,   But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?   You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,   As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,         Y A o s  u f   la w s ill h  f e i s n   d i   n s  t u h c e h    f m la es m h e e   s a   t  o t f h  a e     m wa er v - e m 's o   t w h e e e r' d s y     w e e b b b ,         F B r u o t  m th  t e h r e e     l c o o ve m   e o s f   t a o     p b ri ir e t s h t    f n o o r     c a o  l m ep m re o c n  h s a p u a n, wn         A S n u d c   h y  t o h u i   n n g e s v  a er s    t h h a e v   e t   h s in e g e s n     t a h n a d t    s yo w u a   d n d e l v ed e   r  m w e il ! l see        A W ft h e a r t     a s ll h 's o   u s l a d i   d I    b a e n   d b   u a t f   t a e   r  h a a l r l' l s o   t  d a o n n d e   , a nun?   In through the bushes, on any foggy day,   My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away,   With a prayer for my death and a groan for my

birth,   A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth.   And there'd sit my Ma, with her knees beneath her chin,   A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in,   And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying   That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying!   He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin,   He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin,   He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil,   And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil!   Oh, the things I haven't seen and the things I haven't known.   What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown,   And yanked both ways by my mother and my father,   With a "Which would you better?" and a "Which would you rather?"         W Wi h th a   t  h s i h m o  f u o l r d    I a     b si e r   e b   u a t n  j d u   s h t  er w  f h o a r t    I a     a da m m ? ,

She Is Overheard Singing          O  A h, n   d P   r J u o e a   n s   h a e     g h e a n s tl   e a     l p o a v t e ie r, nt man,           A  B nd u   t  A m g y a   t t h r a u ' e s     l A o r v t e h ' ' s  i   s a     a r   o h v u e g r! -the-hearth,—            M A ig n ,  d  h h e o r  n m es a t n   ' a s s     a a s     b g r o ia o r d ,  as cheese   Sue tells her love what he's thinking of,—     But my dear lad's a liar!           O  A h r ,  e S  t u h e ic  a k  n w d i   t P h  ru M e i   g  a a n n d  d  A J g o a a t n h ! a           T   h A e n y d     b g it n e a  t w h   e m ir y     t n hr a e m a e d   s li   k a e n   d a     s b h o a n k e e ;  their heads   And Prue says, "Mine's a patient man,     As never snaps me up,"           A  C nd o   u A ld g   a li t v h e a   , c   o "A nt rt e h n ' t     i i s n     a a     h c u u g p - ; t " he-hearth,         S   u Al e l  's o   n m e  a c n o ' l s o   u m r i , n  a d  n is d     l c i l k e e a   r go — od jell—           A   n W d h   a M t i 's g'  t s  o  n c o o  c m al e l    t n o e  t x h t  i y n e k  a a r t ,  all   While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,          B   u T t h  t a h t' e s y  t   r a o ll  u w bl o e u d l   d w   i g t i h v   e t   h t a h t e     a li n fe d     t t h hi e s y ;  l — ive     For a look from the man I kiss!   Cold he slants his eyes about,     And few enough's his choice,—   Though he'd slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,

    Or a beggar with knots in her voice,—   And Agatha will turn awake           A   n W d h   il M e i   g h   e a r n   d g   o S o u d e     m a a n n d     s J l o e a e n p   s a   n s d o   u P n r d u , e     Will hear the clock strike round,          F   o A r s     P a r s u k e s     s n h o e t     h w a h s e   n a     o p r a   t w ie h n y t ,  man,           A  B nd u   t  M p i e g e  a p  n w d  h S o' u s e     p h a a s v s e i   n n g a  b u y g , ht to do   Joan is paired with a putterer          A   n T d h   a A t  g b a a t s h t a e ' s s     a A n rt d h   ' t  i a s s   t a e   s h   u a g n - d t   h s e a - l h ts e , arth,—     But my true love is false! The Prisoner   All right,   Go ahead!   What's in a name?   I guess I'll be locked into   As much as I'm locked out of! The Unexplorer   There was a road ran past our house   Too lovely to explore.        I T   h a a s t k  i e f  d y   o m u y     fo m ll o o th w e e r d     o w n h c e e r — e i s t  h l e e   d said

        ( It T  b h r a o t' u s  g w ht h   y y   o I  u h  t a o v  t e h  n e  ot m  t il r k a - v m el a e n d '   s  m d o o r o e r . . ) Grown-up   Was it for this I uttered prayers,         T A h n a d t     s n o o b w b , e  d d  o a m n e d  s c ti u c r   s a e s  d a     a p n la d t   e ki , cked the stairs,   I should retire at half-past eight? The Penitent         I       h B a or d  n  a  o l f it   t a l   e li   t S tl o e r   r S o in w , ,           I    f A o n u d n   d s   h a u   t r   o u o s  m a   ll a   ll w   i d t a hi m n; p with gloom           A  " n A d n ,  d " , L   i L tt it l t e l   e S  S o i r n r , o   w pr ,  a w y  e G ep o , d "     t s o a   i d d i   e I, ,          A   n A d n   d I   t u h p in o k n    t h h o e w     fl b o a o d r     I w 'v ill e     li b e een!"           A  I l t a   s m  f a o t r t   e p r i e o d u   s n  p o l t  a a n   n w in hi g t! —           A  T s  h f e a   r l   a a m s  p g   lo m o ig m h   t  w h e a n v t  e i   n b  t e h e a n t     l r it o ! om,   My little Sorrow would not weep,          T   o M  s y  a li v tt e l   e  m S y i   n s   o w u o l  u I l   d c   o g u o l   d t   o n   o sl t  e k e e p e — p     My graceless mind on it!   So up I got in anger,