April’s poem

… describes this season of political campaigning.

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To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The 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 men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

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(“Spring” by Edna St. Vincent Millay)

July’s poems

… are by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

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Figs from Thistles [excerpts]

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night:
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –
It gives a lovely light!

Second Fig

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand: / Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

The Unexplorer

There was a road ran past our house
Too lovely to explore.
I asked my mother once – she said
That if you followed where it led
It brought you to the milkman’s door.
(That’s why I have not traveled more.)

Thursday

And if I loved you Wednesday,
Well, what is that to you?
I do not love you Thursday –
So much is true.

And why you come complaining
Is more than I can see.
I loved you Wednesday – yes – but what
Is that to me?

The True Encounter

“Wolf!” cried my cunning heart
At every sheep it spied,
And roused the countryside.

“Wolf! Wolf!” – and up would start
Good neighbors, bringing spade
And pitchfork to my aid.

At length my cry was known:
Therein lay my release.
I met the wolf alone
And was devoured in peace.

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I have left out “The Penitent” – the last section of “Figs from Thistles” – because it is too impious.