Project Gutenberg's A Few Figs from Thistles, by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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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

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A FEW FIGS FROM THISTLES ***

Produced by David Starner

A Few Figs from Thistles

Poems and Sonnets

by

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thanks are due to the editors of Ainslie's, The Dial, Pearson's Poetry, Reedy's Mirror, and Vanity Fair, for their kind permission 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 dawn 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 read;
  And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,
  And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

Thursday

  And if I loved you Wednesday,
    Well, what is that to you?
  I do not love you Thursday—
    So much is true.

  And why you come complaining
    Is more than I can see.
  I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what
    Is that to me?

To the Not Impossible Him

  How shall I know, unless I go
    To Cairo and Cathay,
  Whether or not this blessed spot
    Is blest in every way?

  Now it may be, the flower for me
    Is this beneath my nose;
  How shall I tell, unless I smell
    The Carthaginian rose?

  The fabric of my faithful love
    No power shall dim or ravel
  Whilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear,
    If I should ever travel!

Macdougal Street