Explore "Cap D'Antibes" by Edna St. Vincent Millay on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The storm is over, and the land has forgotten the storm; the trees are still.
Under this sun the rain dries quickly.
Cones from the sea-pines cover the ground again / Where yesterday for my fire I gathered all in sight;
But the leaves are meek. The smell of the small alyssum that grows wild here / Is in the air. It is a childish morning.
More sea than land am I; my sulky mind, whipped high by tempest in the night, is not so soon appeased.
Into my occupations with dull roar / It washes, / It recedes.
Even as at my side in the calm day the disturbed Mediterranean / Lurches with heavy swell against the bird-twittering shore.
Precious in the light of the early sun the Housatonic / Between its not unscalable mountains flows.
Precious in the January morning the shabby fur of the cat-tails by the stream.
The farmer driving his horse to the feed-store for a sack of cracked corn / Is not in haste; there is no whip in the socket.
Pleasant enough, gay even, by no means sad / Is the rickety graveyard on the hill. Those are not cypress trees
Perpendicular among the lurching slabs, but cedars from the neighbourhood, / Native to this rocky land, self-sown. Precious / In the early light, reassuring
Is the grave-scarred hillside.
As if after all, the earth might know what it is about.