I fly back to DC in a few hours, so it won't be until tomorrow that my vacation setting ends and your regularly scheduled blog content begins again.
In the meantime, I leave you with this. I only wish I could find a version where the poet herself reads. This particular reading is stuffy and does the somber beauty of the words no justice. There was a time where I felt much this way. Now it reminds me of earlier days, but a trip back home often brings back such memories. I post this here in part dedicated to a dear professor friend whose favorite poet was Edna St. Vincent Millay.
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.