• On Reading Edna St. Vincent Millay's Time Does Not Bring Relief

    Your fourteen lines are mine. They are my gold
    mine in the sunshine, coal mine in the snow;
    they are my ocean's tugging ebb and flow;
    they are my downpour in the heat and cold.
    I read them now, young; when I have grown old,
    with my eyes poor, but having more to show,
    I shall revisit them and find them, though
    unchanged in word, so different to behold.

    Perhaps the mines and oceans will have dried
    and heaven's tears will have been spent by then--
    if there is one thing left unchanged by tide
    and clime, it is the memory of men.
    I was a child when I first read, and cried;
    old and again so frail, I'll weep again.