Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies by Edna St. Vincent Millay
It was pointed out that I’ve never posted this poem by my beloved ESVM. One can never read too much of ESVM’s poetry (as I may have mentioned in the past) and I’m glad that there will always be more of her poems to post (it would take longer than I will likely be posting poems to share them all).
Childhood Is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
Childhood is not from birth to a certain age and at a certain age
The child is grown, and puts away childish things.
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.
Nobody that matters, that is. Distant relatives of course
Die, whom one never has seen or has seen for an hour,
And they gave one candy in a pink-and-green stripèd bag, or a jack-knife,
And went away, and cannot really be said to have lived at all.
And cats die. They lie on the floor and lash their tails,
And their reticent fur is suddenly all in motion
With fleas that one never knew were there,
Polished and brown, knowing all there is to know,
Trekking off into the living world.
You fetch a shoe-box, but it’s much too small, because she won’t curl up now:
So you find a bigger box, and bury her in the yard, and weep.
But you do not wake up a month from then, two months,
A year from then, two years, in the middle of the night
And weep, with your knuckles in your mouth, and say Oh, God! Oh, God!
Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies that matters,—mothers and fathers don’t die.
And if you have said, “For heaven’s sake, must you always be kissing a person?”
Or, “I do wish to gracious you’d stop tapping on the window with your thimble!”
Tomorrow, or even the day after tomorrow if you’re busy having fun,
Is plenty of time to say, “I’m sorry, mother.”
To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak;
Who do not drink their tea, though they always said
Tea was such a comfort.
Run down into the cellar and bring up the last jar of raspberries; they are not tempted.
Flatter them, ask them what was it they said exactly
That time, to the bishop, or to the overseer, or to Mrs. Mason;
They are not taken in.
Shout at them, get red in the face, rise,
Drag them up out of their chairs by their stiff shoulders and shake them and yell at them;
They are not startled, they are not even embarrassed; they slide back into their chairs.
Your tea is cold now.
You drink it standing up,
And leave the house.
Thank you, what an amazing poem. I didn’t know it at all.
“To be grown up is to sit at the table with people who have died, who neither listen nor speak”
I come here and read these poems now and again in those moments when I’m searching for that deep human touch and contemplation that poetry seems to compact so tightly in such brief words. And while I have read a certain amount of ESVM, and a couple of recent biographies, this poem is new to me. And I’m am glad to find it.
It seems deeply sad and reflective to me. Especially finding it carefully tucked just before the new year at the end of what felt like a long decade. Combined with yesterday’s poem, about an experience honestly too familiar to me at least, both those poems set out quite a serious note.
A contrast to traditional celebrations, too, since here we are on the eve of a new year, experiencing that recuring moment of renewed hopes and fresh resolutions. Can we dare, once more, to reclaim our deathless childhood optimism? And once again partake in that yearly ritual setting our hopes in bold and stark relief against challanging times ahead?
Yes. Why not?
So let me add a New Year’s wish, taken from a stanza of Rumi:
In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest,
where no one sees you,
but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.
So in the coming year, may we all find a brief moment of vision when inspiration dances inside our chests. And perhaps a worthy poem or two. I never expect them to be common, but let’s hope there’s at least a few that are enduring.
Thank you for your wonderful poems of the day. Have you read “Savage Beauty” by Nancy Milford about our dear Edna?
Lynn,
I have indeed read Savage Beauty, as well as Jean Gould’s The Poet and Her Book and Daniel Epstein’s What Lips My Lips Have Kissed. ESVM led such a fascinating life.