Time Does Not Bring Relief by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Time 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 there!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him! 

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Underground System by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Underground System, by Edna St. Vincent Millay was originally published in 1939 in Huntsman, What Quarry?. Millay republished it in 1940, in her book urging action by America to enter the war in the fight against European Fascism.  I have copies of both books and have taken my reproduction from the original.  Why are we reading it today, after over 70 years?  Really? Read on and find out.  It certainly echoes my thoughts and keep in mind that ESVM wrote this poem while America was still in the throes of the Depression.  The threats to the Republic were as great then, or greater, and I think ESVM and I would probably agree on who the 'moles' are.  Whether the Fascists triumphed or not, I will let you be the judge. I hoped to have more information about this poem and I just tried to find my copy of her biography, Savage Beauty, in the slag heap that is my basement and former library, but of course, could not.  Well, carry on, right?

Underground System

Set the foot down with distrust upon the crust of
    the world - it is thin.
Moles are at work beneath us; they have tunnelled
    the sub-soil
With separate chambers; which at an appointed
    knock
Could be as one, could intersect and interlock.  We
    walk on the skin
Of life.  No toil
Of rake or hoe, no lime, no phosphate, no rotation
    of crops, no irrigation of the land,
Will coax the limp and flattened grain to stand
On that bad day, or feed to strength the nibbled
    roots of our nation.


Ease has demoralized us, nearly so; we know
Nothing of the rigours of winter: the house has a 
    roof against - the car a top against - the snow.
All will be well, we say; it is a habit, like the rising
    of the sun,
For our country to prosper; who can prevail against
    us? No one.


The house has a roof; but the boards of its floor are
    rotting, and hall upon hall
The moles have built their palace beneath us: we
    have not far to fall.



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Eel Grass by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sunday afternoon, last day of my vacation.  This has been a great two weeks, even if I haven't quite been able to produce any writing from it yet.  Did some reading and relaxing and except for a bout of food poisoning at the end, was in every way a perfect vacation.  However, every good thing comes to an end, I suppose.  I know I am not looking forward to going back to work, but who ever is?  Anyway, this poem from Second April, by ESVM pretty much expresses how I will be feeling at this time tomorrow.

No matter what I say,
   All that I really love
Is the rain the flattens on the bay,
   And the eel-grass in the cove;
The jingle-shells that lie and bleach
   At the tide-line, and the trace
Of higher tides along the beach;
   Nothing in this place.




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