Tag Archives: Dirge without Music

A phrase remains

silver beech

Two poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay today.

The first is playful, it sounds like a chant you might make running through the woods, or when making magic wands.

The second is a stark contrast despite the similar sense of enumeration. It holds the sadness and determination I normally think of when her name pops up. (The first poem of hers I ever read was Conscientious Objector, so that set the tone.)

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