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Edna St. Vincent Millay
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950) was an American poet and playwright known for her lyrical and passionate poetry. She gained fame with her first collection, "Renascence and Other Poems" (1917), and won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923 for "The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver." Millay was also a noted feminist and social activist, and her works often explored themes of love, death, and the struggle for artistic freedom. Her unique voice and bold style made her one of the most celebrated poets of her time.
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ACT I Scene 1 [Scene: A garden of the palace at Fiori; four years later.] [Discovered seated Laura, Francesca and Fidelio, Laura embroidering,Fidelio strumming his flute, Francesca lost in thought.] LAURA. You,—Fool! If there be two chords to your lute,Give us the other for a time! FRANCESCA. And yet, Laura,I somewhat fancied that soft sound he made.'Twas all on the same tone,—but 'twas a...
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Renascence and Other Poems Renascence All I could see from where I stoodWas three long mountains and a wood;I turned and looked another way,And saw three islands in a bay.So with my eyes I traced the lineOf the horizon, thin and fine,Straight around till I was comeBack to where I'd started from;And all I saw from where I stoodWas three long mountains and a wood.Over these things I could not...
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Second Fig Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand! Recuerdo We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles...
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SPRING To what purpose, April, do you return again?Beauty is not enough.You can no longer quiet me with the rednessOf little leaves opening stickily.I know what I know.The sun is hot on my neck as I observeThe spikes of the crocus.The smell of the earth is good.It is apparent that there is no death.But what does that signify?Not only under ground are the brains of menEaten by maggots,Life in itselfIs...
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COLUMBINE: Pierrot, a macaroon! I cannot live without a macaroon! PIERROT: My only love, You are so intense! . . . Is it Tuesday, Columbine?— I'll kiss you if it's Tuesday. COLUMBINE: It is Wednesday, If you must know . . . . Is this my artichoke, Or yours? PIERROT: Ah, Columbine,—as if it mattered! Wednesday . . . . Will it be Tuesday, then, to-morrow, By any chance? COLUMBINE: To-morrow...
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