The American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950) became, in 1923, at the age of 31, the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize. A dramatist and librettist as well as a poet, she enjoyed early success with the publication of her much-anthologized poem “Renascence” in 1912. Famous as a 20th century practitioner of the sonnet, and for such tightly bitter epigrams as “First Fig,” she was equally at home in looser, more experimental forms. “Spring,” with its varying accentual lines, evokes the fact that despair will always see ruin, even when faced with beauty and renewal: April as its own cruel April Fool’s Day joke. Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. ___________________________________________ With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by the Sun’s poetry editor, Joseph Bottum of Dakota State University, with the help of the North Carolina poet, Sally Thomas. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems will be typically drawn from the lesser-known portion of the history of English verse. In the coming months we will be reaching out to contemporary poets for examples of current, primarily formalist work, to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.
