Scraps of poetry, remembered over a lifetime, float to the surface: Auden, Jeffers, Neruda, Yeats, Shakespeare: “I am dying, Egypt, dying; only I here importune death awhile, until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay up thy lips.” And Edna st Millay:
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“Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree, Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one, Yet knows 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.”

May 18, 2023 · 2:00 AM UTC

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*Edna St Vincent Millay*
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