“So come on out, my dear old sweet Sister, - & we'll open our oysters together.”

“Lost in Hell,-Persephone,Take her head upon your knee;Say to her, "My dear, my dear,It is not so dreadful here.”

“Be to her, Persephone,All the things I might not be;Take her head upon your knee.She that was so proud and wild,Flippant, arrogant and free,She that had no need of me,Is a little lonely childLost in Hell,—Persephone,Take her head upon your knee;Say to her, “My dear, my dear,It is not so dreadful here.”

“After all, my erstwhile dear,My no longer cherished,Need we say it was not love,Just because it perished?”

“I shall forget you presently, my dear (Sonnet IV) "I shall forget you presently, my dear,So make the most of this, your little day,Your little month, your little half a yearEre I forget, or die, or move away,And we are done forever; by and byI shall forget you, as I said, but now,If you entreat me with your loveliest lieI will protest you with my favorite vow.I would indeed that love were longer-lived,And vows were not so brittle as they are,But so it is, and nature has contrivedTo struggle on without a break thus far,—Whether or not we find what we are seekingIs idle, biologically speaking.— Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Selected Poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay (Modern Library, 2001)”

“Time Does Not Bring ReliefTime does not bring relief; you all have lied Who told me time would ease me of my pain! I miss him in the weeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide; The old snows melt from every mountain-side, And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane; But last year’s bitter loving must remain Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide. There are a hundred places where I fear To go,—so with his memory they brim. And entering with relief some quiet place Where never fell his foot or shone his face I say, “There is no memory of him here!” And so stand stricken, so remembering him.”

“We were so wholly one I had not thoughtThat we could die apart. I had not thoughtThat I could move,—and you be stiff and still!That I could speak,—and you perforce be dumb!I think our heart-strings were, like warp and woofIn some firm fabric, woven in and out;Your golden filaments in fair designAcross my duller fibre.”