Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/130
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Unremembered as old rain,
Dries the sheer libation,
And the little, petulant hand
Is an annotation.
Dries the sheer libation,
And the little, petulant hand
Is an annotation.
After all, my erstwhile dear,
My no longer cherished,
Need we say it was not love,
Now that love is perished.
My no longer cherished,
Need we say it was not love,
Now that love is perished.
The CenturyEdna St. Vincent Millay
TO A POET THAT DIED YOUNG
Minstrel, what have you to do
With this man that after you
Sharing not your happy fate,
Sat at England's Laureate?
Vainly in these iron days
Strives the poet in your praise,
Minstrel, by whose singing side
Beauty walked, until you died.
With this man that after you
Sharing not your happy fate,
Sat at England's Laureate?
Vainly in these iron days
Strives the poet in your praise,
Minstrel, by whose singing side
Beauty walked, until you died.
Still, though none should hark again,
Drones the blue-fly in the pane,
Thickly crusts the blackest moss,
Blows the rose its musk across,
Floats the boat that is forgot
None the less to Camelot.
Drones the blue-fly in the pane,
Thickly crusts the blackest moss,
Blows the rose its musk across,
Floats the boat that is forgot
None the less to Camelot.
Many a bard's untimely death
Lends unto his verses breath;
Here's a song was never sung:
Growing old is dying young.
Minstrel, what is this to you:
That a man you never knew,
When your grave was fair and green,
Sat and gossiped with a queen?
Lends unto his verses breath;
Here's a song was never sung:
Growing old is dying young.
Minstrel, what is this to you:
That a man you never knew,
When your grave was fair and green,
Sat and gossiped with a queen?
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