Tuesday, August 21, 2018

232/365/Poetry and Form

Tim and I were briefly in Rockland, Maine, last summer. I had forgotten that Edna St. Vincent Millay was born there. We had just missed the Millay Arts & Poetry Festival. We were in an art gallery, looking at paintings, and there on the wall was a copy of the sonnet that opened my wedding:

Sonnet XXX
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would. 

I found it.


  1. A friend had a book of Edna St. Vincent Millay's poetry in her guest room. I read the whole book and found the poetry very accessible, even to a Metrophobe like me.