Poems (Millay)/The Poet and his Book
The Poet and his Book
Down , you mongrel, Death! Back into your kennel!I have stolen breath In a stalk of fennel!You shall scratch and you shall whine Many a night, and you shall worry Many a bone, before you buryOne sweet bone of mine!
When shall I be dead? When my flesh is withered,And above my head Yellow pollen gatheredAll the empty afternoon? When sweet lovers pause and wonder Who am I that lie thereunder,Hidden from the moon?
This my personal death?— That my lungs be failingTo inhale the breath Others are exhaling?This my subtle spirit's end?— Ah, when the thawed winter splashes Over these chance dust and ashes,Weep not me, my friend!
Me, by no means dead In that hour, but surelyWhen this book, unread, Rots to earth obscurely,And no more to any breast, Close against the clamorous swelling Of the thing there is no telling,Are these pages pressed!
When this book is mould, And a book of manyWaiting to be sold For a casual penny,In a little open case, In a street unclean and cluttered, Where a heavy mud is spatteredFrom the passing drays,
Stranger, pause and look;, From the dust of agesLift this little book, Turn the tattered pages,Read me, do not let me die! Search the fading letters, finding Steadfast in the broken bindingAll that once was I!
When these veins are weeds, When these hollowed socketsWatch the rooty seeds Bursting down like rockets,And surmise the spring again, Or, remote in that black cupboard, Watch the pink worms writhing upwardAt the smell of rain,
Boys and girls that lie Whispering in the hedges,Do not let me die, Mix me with your pledges;Boys and girls that slowly walk In the woods, and weep, and quarrel, Staring past the pink wild laurel,Mix me with your talk,
Do not let me die! Farmers at your raking,When the sun is high, While the hay is making,When, along the stubble strewn, Withering on their stalks uneaten, Strawberries turn dark and sweetenIn the lapse of noon;
Shepherds on the hills, In the pastures, drowsingTo the tinkling bells Of the brown sheep browsing;Sailors crying through the storm; Scholars at your study; hunters Lot amid the whirling winter'sWhiteness uniform;
Men that long for sleep; Men that wake and revel;—If an old song leap To your senses' levelAt such moments, may it be Sometimes, though a moment only, Some forgotten, quaint and homelyVehicle of me!
Women at your toil, Women at your leisureTill the kettle boil, Snatch of me your pleasure,Where the broom-straw marks the leaf; Women quiet with your weeping Lest you wake a workman sleeping,Mix me with your grief!
Boys and girls that steal From the shocking laughterOf the old, to kneel By a dripping rafterUnder the discoloured eaves, Out of trunks with hingeless covers Lifting tales of saints and lovers,Travellers, goblins, thieves,
Suns that shine by night, Mountains made from valleys,—Bear me to the light, Flat upon your belliesBy the webby window lie, Where the little flies are crawling,— Read me, margin me with scrawling,Do not let me die!
Sexton, ply your trade! In a shower of gravelStamp upon your spade! Many a rose shall ravel,Many a metal wreath shall rust In the rain, and I go singing Through the lots where you are flingingYellow clay on dust!