Edna St Vincent Millay I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away,...
We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; Well, such we are, but well enough we know How thick about us root, how rankly grow Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, That flourish through neglect a...
Recently I’ve discovered the works of Edna St Vincent Millay, and I have already briefly analysed one of her sonnets here. I’ve also translated her poem, Thursday, from A Few Figs from Thi...