Here the Moon-Birds will sacrifice to you, our readers, a weekly poem which has caught our eye(s)—poems which invoke, in whatever way, witchy-ness, spooky-ness, the sacred feminine, the mysterious, or the otherworldly.
Millay is a regular favorite of mine, and this is a topical one. There’s a simple and powerful sentiment at the close of this poem I absolutely love, the speaker’s witch-wife as loving (not cold, not a spinster), but ineffably her own.
And then read more Millay.
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950)
She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.
She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of colored beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.
She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.
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