Explore "Let you not Say of me when I am Old" by Edna St. Vincent Millay on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Let you not say of me when I am old, / In pretty worship of my withered hands
Forgetting who I am, and how the sands
Of such a life as mine run red and gold
Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, / Here walketh passionless age! "-for there expands
A curious superstition in these lands, / And by its leave some weightless tales are told. In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; I am the booth where Folly holds her fair;
Impious no less in ruin than in strength, / When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, / Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site
The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer. "