I do but ask that you be always fair by Edna St. Vincent Millay

24. March 2010, 18:17 Uhrlewis carroll, edna st. vincent millayrinabeana

Another month, another ESVM poem. YAY!

I do but ask that you be always fair
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

I do but ask that you be always fair,
That I for ever may continue kind;
Knowing me what I am, you should not dare
To lapse from beauty ever, nor seek to bind
My alterable mood with lesser cords:
Weeping and such soft matters but invite
To further vagrancy, and bitter words
Chafe soon to irremediable flight,
Wherefore I pray you if you love me dearly
Less dear to hold me than your own bright charms,
Whence it may fall that until death or nearly
I shall not move to struggle from your arms;
Fade if you must; I would but bid you be
Like the sweet year, doing all things graciously.

On an unrelated note, a friend alerted me to the awesomeness of Christopher Lee reading Jabberwocky. Of course, I posted Jabberwocky ages ago.

5 comments:

  1. emerson, 25. March 2010, 1:10

    I hope you have a Margaret Atwood poem coming up soon! :D

     
  2. rinabeana, 25. March 2010, 4:23

    I don’t have any in my file, but I’m open to suggestion, as long as I haven’t already posted it.

     
  3. emerson, 26. March 2010, 15:15

    I got a book of her selected poems that was published in 1976 at a second hand book fair…so I have lots of suggestions :)
    The Deaths of the Other Children is good
    And I really like Rat Song
    But Owl Song is also fantastic.

     
  4. rinabeana, 26. March 2010, 17:50

    I found Rat Song and Owl Song online, but couldn’t get the text for The Deaths of the Other Children.

     
  5. emerson, 27. March 2010, 15:54

    It’s not my favorite of the three, also The Animals in That Country is definitely worth a look at.
    Here’s the text you couldn’t find :)

    The Deaths of the Other Children
    Margaret Atwood

    The body dies

    little by little

    the body buries itself

    joins itself
    to the loosened mind, to the black-
    berries and thistles, running in a
    thorny wind
    over the shallow
    foundations of our former houses,
    dim hollows now in the sandy soil

    Did I spend all those years
    building up this edifice
    my composite
    self, this crumbling hovel?

    My arms, my eyes, my grieving
    words, my disintegrated children

    Everywhere I walk, along
    the overgrowing paths, my skirt
    tugged at by the spreading briers

    they catch at my heels with their fingers

     

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