#sister of Edna St. Vincent Millay

[shisasan]

Kathleen Kalloch Millay Young, Witch [1896-1943]

#kathleen millay #sister of Edna St. Vincent Millay #witch #poetry #literature #words #academia #dark academia #quote #edna st. vincent millay #lit #books #books and libraries #reading #quotes #quote of the day #bookworm #book quotes #prose #booklr #bibliophile #excerpt #p

[derangedrhythms]

Night is my sister,

Edna St. Vincent Millay, Fatal Interview: from 'Night is my sister, and how deep in love...'

#edna st. vincent millay #fatal interview #night is my sister and how deep in love #poetry #excerpts #night

[fuckyeahhistorycrushes]

Edna St. Vincent Millay was a poet whose work was definitional to the glamour of Roaring Twenties America. She was born in 1892 and when she was just seven, her mother divorced her father and took her and her sisters to live in Maine. The Millay household was one of strong, intelligent, independent women and the bond they shared is one of the most fascinating I've ever read about.

Millay wrote poetry from a young age, and when she was twenty, her poem Renascence got the attention of a wealthy woman who decided to sponsor her way through college. She went to Vassar and was nearly prevented from walking at her graduation for breaking curfew one to many times, but her classmates all rallied to defend her and the headmaster relented.

People could not stop falling in love with this woman. In her Vassar years, many women fell head over heels for her. She also had many affairs with men. When she did marry, in 1923, she and her husband loved each other dearly, but neither gave up the relationships they had on the side, they "lived like a pair of old bachelors."

Her poetry is beautiful and aside from being the first woman to win a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, she was also such an evocative wordsmith. Themes of love, death, and nature are prevalent throughout, but she has a unique twist on them. I really appreciate the way that women are depicted in her work as whole beings with wants and needs outside of being a chaste object of desire for a male narrator.

And also she's very beautiful. I could only attach one picture here but she really is very good to look at.

#history #history crushes #submission

[pearlsoflongago]

Looking into the Garden

Life and Love

Geraniums by Childe Hassam

Portrait by a Neighbour

Before she has her floor swept Or her dishes done, Any day you’ll find her A-sunning in the sun!

It’s long after midnight Her key’s in the lock, And you never see her chimney smoke Till past ten o’clock!

She digs in her garden With a shovel and a spoon, She weeds her lazy lettuce By the light of the moon.

She walks up the walk Like a woman in a dream, She forgets she borrowed butter And pays you back cream!

Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne’s lace!

—Edna St. Vincent Millay

Paysage au Bord du Lez by Frederic Bazille

Heartsease Country

TO ISABEL SWINBURNE

The far green westward heavens are bland, The far green Wiltshire downs are clear As these deep meadows hard at hand: The sight knows hardly far from near, Nor morning joy from evening cheer. In cottage garden-plots their bees Find many a fervent flower to seize And strain and drain the heart away From ripe sweet-williams and sweet-peas At every turn on every way.

But gladliest seems one flower to expand Its whole sweet heart all round us here; ’Tis Heartsease Country, Pansy Land. Nor sounds nor savours harsh and drear Where engines yell and halt and veer Can vex the sense of him who sees One flower-plot midway, that for trees Has poles, and sheds all grimed or grey For bowers like those that take the breeze At every turn on every way.

Content even there they smile and stand, Sweet thought’s heart-easing flowers, nor fear, With reek and roaring steam though fanned, Nor shrink nor perish as they peer. The heart’s eye holds not those more dear That glow between the lanes and leas Where’er the homeliest hand may please To bid them blossom as they may Where light approves and wind agrees At every turn on every way.

Sister, the word of winds and seas Endures not as the word of these Your wayside flowers whose breath would say How hearts that love may find heart’s ease At every turn on every way.

—Charles Algernon Swinburne

Picking Flowers by Auguste Renoir

The Flower's Name

Here's the garden she walked across, Arm in my arm, such a short while since: Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went while her robe's edge brushed the box: And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know; But yonder, see, where the rock-plants lie! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip, Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name: What a name! Was it love or praise? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake? I must learn Spanish, one of these days, Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell, Fit you each with his Spanish phrase; But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not, Stay as you are and be loved forever! Bud, if I kiss you 't is that you blow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never! For while it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle— Is not the dear mark still to be seen? Where I find her not, beauties vanish; Whither I follow her, beauties flee; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June 's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Treasure my lady's lightest footfall! —Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces— Roses, you are not so fair after all!

—Robert Browning

Still Life with Flowers by Edouard Manet

#literature #poetry #dark academia #light academia #classic #inspiration #books & libraries #classic academia #pierre auguste renoir #childe hassam #algernon charles swinburne #edna st vincent millay #robert browning #edouard manet #frederic bazille

[nonalimmen]

“Night is my Sister”

-Edna St. Vincent Millay, from The Collected Poems; “Night is my Sister, and How Deep in Love,”

[fawnaura]

Night is my sister,

Edna St. Vincent Millay, from The Collected Poems; “Night is my Sister, and How Deep in Love,”

#quote #edna st. vincent millay #poetry #night

[veliseraptor]

Top five poems

could've sworn I'd answered this one before but I can't find it in my like 20 page backlog of top five meme asks...so guess I'm doing it again! or if you just specifically want me losing my mind about Mary Oliver, here you go

(limited myself to one Mary Oliver here. I had to make a hard decision. and I still ended up doing a top 10 instead of a top 5, so sue me)

1. “Rainy Night” by Dorothy Parker (I am sister to the rain;/Fey and sudden and unholy,/Petulant at the windowpane,/Quickly lost, remembered slowly.)

2. “Black Oaks” by Mary Oliver (Listen, says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from/one boot to another — why don’t you get going?/For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees./And to tell the truth I don’t want to let go of the wrists/of idleness, I don’t want to sell my life for money,/I don’t even want to come in out of the rain.)

3. “Least of All” by Natalie Wee (I kneel into a dream where I/am good & loved. I am/good. I am loved. My hands have made/some good mistakes. They can always/make better ones.)

4. “Good Bones” by Maggie Smith (Life is short and the world/is at least half terrible, and for every kind/stranger, there is one who would break you,/though I keep this from my children. I am trying/to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,/walking you through a real shithole, chirps on/about good bones: This place could be beautiful,/right? You could make this place beautiful.)

5. “The Second Coming” by William Butler Yeats (Turning and turning in the widening gyre/The falcon cannot hear the falconer;/Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;/Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,/The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere/The ceremony of innocence is drowned;/The best lack all conviction, while the worst/Are full of passionate intensity.)

6. “Dirge Without Music” by Edna St. Vincent Millay (I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground./So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:/Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.  Crowned/With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.)

7. “Ars Lunga” by Ursula K. LeGuin (I don’t want a new heaven and new earth,/only the old ones./Old sky, old dirt, new grass./Nor life beyond the grave,/God help me, or I’ll help myself/by living all these lives/nine at once or ninety/so that death finds me at all times/and on all sides exposed,/unfortressed, undefended,/inviolable, vulnerable, alive.)

8. “Little Beast” by Richard Siken (Try explaining a life bundled with episodes of this—/swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood/on the first four knuckles./We pull our boots on with both hands/but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do/is stand on the curb and say Sorry/about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine./I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.)

9. “The Hollow Men” by T.S. Eliot (Between the idea/And the reality/Between the motion/And the act/Falls the Shadow)

10. “As I Walked Out One Evening” by W.H. Auden ('O stand, stand at the window/As the tears scald and start;/You shall love your crooked neighbour/With your crooked heart.')

#conversating #anonymous #top five meme #been a while anon sorry #mood's all over on this one i know #also play spot the fanfic title with this list it'll be fun #poetry

[breha]

more poems for iwtv

[see claudia poems]

louis

agha shahid ali, "of light" (note: page turn)

james baldwin, "conundrum (on my birthday)" "guilt, desire, and love" (note: page turn)

dorothy barresi, "pocket vampire"

charles baudelaire, "the fountain of blood" (trans. rachel hadas) "lethe" (multiple translations) "out of the depths" (mult.) "spleen" (trans. richard howard)

eavan boland, "pomegranate"

jericho brown, "trojan"

fenton johnson, "in the evening"

allen grossman, "the secret religionist"

john keats, "i cry your mercy-pity-love! -aye, love!"

yusef komunyakaa, "blue dementia" "'you and i are disappearing'"

edna st. vincent millay, "time does not bring relief; you all have lied"

lisel meuller, "american literature" "the power of music to disturb" (note: page turn)

carl philips, "a little closer though, if you can, for what got lost here" "stop shaking"

d.a. powell, "a night at the opera"

sandra simonds, "you can't build a child"

patricia smith, "the sun, mad envious, just wants the moon"

keith wilson, "note to a sister"

charles wright, "clear night"

armand

kaveh akbar, "morning prayer with rat king"

donald britton, "elevators i"

tarfia faizullah, "the poem you've been waiting for"

hannah gamble, "i wanted to make myself like the ravine" "it was alive, though differently"

d.a. powell, "the fluffer talks of eternity"

sandra simonds, "flammagenitus strophes"

lestat

george barker, "sonnets of the triple-headed manichee" (note: page turn)

charles baudelaire, "don juan in hell" (multiple translations) "i adore you as much as the nocturnal vault..." (mult.) "sympathetic horror" (mult.)

arthur rimbaud, "a season in hell" (trans. bertrand mathieu)

richard shiffman, "after the opera"

general/i couldn't decide where to put it

charles baudelaire, "beyond redemption" (mult.) "the self-tormenter" (mult.)

frank o'hara, "meditations in an emergency"

#iwtv #vampire posting

[maevefinnartist]

got any good poetry book recommendations?

depends on what kind of poetry you like but here are some I own/some of my favorites:

"Blessing the Boats: New and Selected Poems" Lucille Clifton

"Pocket Irish Poetry" Gill & MacMillan

"If They Come For Us" and "When We Were Sisters" Fatimah Asghar

"The Astrakhan Cloak" Nuala Ní Domhnaill

"North" and "Station Island" Seamus Heaney

"Collected Sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay" Harper & Row

"Rose Quartz: Poems" Sasha Taqwšəblu LaPointe

"The Black Unicorn" Audre Lorde

"Second Sight" Paddy Bushe

#book recs #poetry #filíocht

[parfumieren]

L'Air de Rien (Miller Harris)

L'Air de Rien wears a embroidered sheepskin Afghan coat with long, curly blonde fleece festooning the collar and cuffs. Stained from long travels, softened by hard wear, it reeks of cigarette smoke, incense, patchouli oil, lanolin, and the accumulated body odors of she who has worn it -- largely without the benefit of soap and water-- for six weeks straight.

And what an eventful six weeks it's been! Tangiers, Marrakech, the Atlas Mountains, fueled by hashish and mint tea from morning to night... Remember the souk in Fes, spices by the sackful lined up on the paving stones? Remember sleeping on the beach at Essaouira, to be awakened at dawn by children selling fresh dates wrapped in palm leaves? Then there was that midnight camel ride under a sickle moon... was that still Morocco? Or Algiers? (Or Paris; they have camels and moons in Paris, don't they? All that bourbon can make a girl forget things...)

Anyway, Paris: pastis and cigarettes on the balcony of Jagger's suite at the Hôtel de Crillon. He was in rare form that night-- and L'Air de Rien's got the bruises to prove it. This Navajo silver-and-turquoise bracelet? Mick gave it to her, naturally... for services rendered. (But the black leather bullwhip? Well... it wasn't exactly given so much as taken; a souvenir, you understand....)

Other souvenirs housed in the coat's infernal pockets: ticket stubs, phone numbers, unpaid traffic citations, Gauloises Bleues, pot seeds, licorice cough lozenges, tear-stained love letters, soiled panties, stolen hotel room keys, a Barretta (loaded), a hash pipe (empty-- je suis désolée!), and silk-tasseled mala beads worn shiny by repeated caresses between perfumed fingers...

She shows up on your doorstep at two a.m., bleary-eyed and laughing, pushing her way past you without further invitation. You'll let me crash here, won't you, love? Ravenous from weeks on the road, she empties out your refrigerator for an impromptu feast-- and leaves a mountain of dirty dishes in your kitchen sink. She seems to smoke just to show off her French inhale, and to wear clothes just to theatrically remove them while you watch. When she's gone, your sofa cushions smell of her for weeks-- the rich and musky scent of an outlaw life, replete with unbrushed teeth, unwashed hair, and the wood smoke of a thousand bonfires.

It could be as people say-- L'Air de Rien is Muscs Koublaï Khän's spoiled little sister, coasting around the world on the last fumes of a much-abused trust fund. But you don't believe everything you hear, do you? Better to take the word of her spiritual mentor, Edna St. Vincent Millay: L'Air de Rien is one of those "gypsy souls following false paths in search of camping grounds that cannot be on earth, thirsting after poisoned springs, singers of forbidden songs, insatiable..."

Scent Elements: Oakmoss, neroli, musk, amber, vanilla

#l'air de rien #miller harris #perfume review #parfümieren

[samuel-de-champagne-problems]

the bronte sisters are folklore in the way that emily dickinson is evermore in the way that jane austen is lover in the way that edna st vincent millay is red in the way that lousia may alcott is fearless

#this is me rambling

[labellerose-acheron]

Belle's Animal Companions

Philippe

Age: 21 Breed: Belgian Draft Personality: Sweet and old and docile! Belle's bestest friend. Other: Lives at the Nook on the property with Angus, Merida's horse.

The Black Shuck (Shuck)

Age: Immortal Breed: Hellhound (looks like an Irish Wolfhound) Personality: Very protective, especially of Belle. If he knows you, very friendly. Obeys orders very well. Will growl if he thinks you are in any way a threat. He really is a big dumb sweetie 90% of the time tho. Other: It's kind of an open secret he's a hell hound, since Hades had to go to court over him "attacking" someone (it was staged to get Hades in trouble.) They don't really advertise it but if you've lived in town long enough, you know. He wears a charmed collar that makes him look like a normal dog, but if he is not wearing it he drools embers and has fire in his eyes and also can turn into shadow and jump from one place to another. (Has a brother, The Baskerville Hound, and a sister, Bearer of Death -- they live in the Underworld tho cuz they're meaner.)

Edna St. Vincent Millay (Vincent)

Age: 8 Breed: Black cat idk Personality: Very sweet and shy, you will barely see her. Other: Lives outside mostly. Was originally Persephone's cat, given to her by Belle as a birthday gift.

Nago

Age: Immortal (but a little bb rn, he'll grow though.) Breed: Unknown Personality: Just a wittle sweet baby piglet. Other: Kind of a long story, but he's the reincarnation of a forest spirit that was corrupted? Belle has been charged with raising him and returning him to the forest when he's old enough. <3 (You won't know this unless you already know, lmao.)

Other

Technically lives with Toulouse's pets too. (Link here.) As I mentioned above, Angus, Merida's Clydesdale lives at the Nook. Also, has several chickens.

#animal companions #inspiration #im adding a new section to my characters pinned post #gonna do more tomorrow #but belle's was so ridic #im not doing more tonight

[violettesiren]

Now let forever the phlox and the rose be tended Here where the rain has darkened and the sun has dried So many times the terrace, yet is love unended, Love has not died.

Let here no seed of a season, that the winter But once assails, take root and for a time endure; But only such as harbour at the frozen centre The germ secure.

Set here the phlox and the iris, and establish Pink and valerian, and the great and lesser bells; But suffer not the sisters of the year, to publish The frost prevails.

How far from home in a world of mortal burdens Is Love, that may not die, and is forever young! Set roses here: surround her only with such maidens As speak her tongue.

The Hardy Garden by Edna St. Vincent Millay

#edna st vincent millay

[jackinalex]

This is not ATL related, but I know you studied English and I was wondering what are some of your favourite books/poems/authors? Do you prefer classical literature or more modern; prose or poetry? I recently started reading a lot more poetry and I love it, there is just something profound about it. Especially when you are able to experience what the author wanted you to so many years later. It’s like an emotional and sensory time machine.

I will talk about literature forever, so I will (try to) keep this brief.

I used to prefer more modern stuff, but I have a soft spot in my heart now for the classics (probably because I studied them extensively for six years lmao). If I'm going to pick up a book and just read it for un, though, it's almost always gonna be a modern thriller. I'm a slut for a murder mystery. My favorite modern authors are Gillian Flynn and VC Andrews, and I would say that my favorite book is Flynn's Sharp Objects. I'm not sure where I'd even begin with my favorite classic works, so I'll just list some of my favorite authors, both modern and classic: Flannery O'Connor, Eudora Welty, Gayl Jones, Randal Kenan, Toni Morrison, Zoje Stage, the Bronte sisters, William Gay, Alice Walker, Zora Neale Hurston, Kate Chopin, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and Hanya Yanagihara. Honorable mentions to Shakespeare, Steinbeck, Vonnegut, Poe, and Faulkner. I'm not going to lie and say that I enjoy reading Faulkner, but his stuff is so ridiculous sometimes. I love his storytelling. My attention span cannot stand his actual writing, but my favorite professor adored him, so I appreciate his southern gothic shit.

Poetry is a whole other can of worms. I adore it, but I didn't always adore it (high school Kalina would be shook to know this). I agree with you! I feel like every time I read a much-loved poem of mine, I still find something new. Music is like that, too.

My favorite poets are AE Housman, Sylvia Plath, and Emily Dickens, pretty much in that order, but I'm a Plath girl through and through. My favorite poem of all time is "Because I Liked You Better" by Housman, and it inspired the title for Where Clover Whitens. It's also the epitaph for the first chapter and what inspired me to make the whole thing have a poetry theme. I love Allen Ginsberg, Christina Rosetti, and Langston Hughes, too.

Most of the poetry I read is classic, but I love, love, love Mary Oliver. Honorable mentions go to Walt Whitman, Ezra Pound, and Edna St. Vincent Millay.

#i'm gonna stop here bc like i said i will talk forever #this was a fun ride down memory lane tho fr #i thought back to all of my time in college #undergrad especially bc i had to take two brit lit classes #and two american lit classes #and i also took a ton of other lit and writing classes #and fuck now i wanna go back to college #trust and believe i will have a PhD some day #anyway thank you so much for this ask! #this was such a fun one #i also wanna add that this is what makes teaching English fun too #i love introducing my kids to literature #kalina answers

[henryclaremontdiaz]

Edna St. Vincent Millay: Do you have a favorite poem or one you can recite? 💕

i really don't read as much poetry as i would like. but for her birthday or christmas i always bought my sister poetry books and id read them myself after i gave them to her, and i love them. the only one i actually own is egghead by bo burnham tbh fhuewifhuei. but i love many of the poems from the sun and her flowers and milk and honey.

which was the first ones i bought for my sister

#answered #mychemicalrachel #please give me poetry suggestions

[vertical-dreams]

5.31.23

It is nice to vent. I appreciate this space. 

My little blog.

: )

Works of self love through doubt, insecurity, the quickening and the lull (every empire must fall!) ... (except for THE one true love, lest we stumble upon him in our adventures!)

I will be with me always, and I am the ultimate true love. 

I love my sweet old dogs, I love my mother and grandfather and sisters and everything under the sun and moon and stars. Life is beautiful. May perspectives be altered to see the goodness and kindness in everything. 

*insert a trillion heart emojis here!!* 

I am feeling this poem right now, one I found when I was a teenager (and loved immediately!):

Afternoon on a Hill

I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down.

– Edna St. Vincent Millay