Explore "Mist in the Valley" by Edna St. Vincent Millay on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
These hills, to hurt me more, / That am hurt already enough,- / Having left the sea behind, / Having turned suddenly and left the shore / That I had loved beyond all words, even a song's words, to convey, / And built me a house on upland acres, / Sweet with the pinxter, bright and rough / With the rusty blackbird long before the winter's done, / But smelling never of bayberry hot in the sun, / Nor ever loud with the pounding of the long white breakers,- / These hills, beneath the October moon, / Sit in the valley white with mist / Like islands in a quiet bay, / Jut out from shore into the mist, / Wooded with poplar dark as pine, / Like points of land into a quiet bay.
(Just in that way / The harbour met the bay)
Stricken too sore for tears, / I stand, remembering the islands and the sea's lost sound. .
Life at its best no longer than the sand-peep's cry, / And I two years, two years, / Tilling an upland ground