I keep rediscovering how much I love Edna St. Vincent Millay's work. So I've decided to just give in to the selective poetry love. But only once a week. How fortunate I am that this occurred to me on a Monday, thus allowing me to give it the title "Millay Mondays."
I guess I could have just waited for Monday if I decided this on a different day, but I'm not that patient.
I would like to state for the record that I removed the exclamation points from this poem, because I really don't like exclamation points. Sorry, Edna.
Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,--so with his memory they brim
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
Breaks my heart.