Evalangui's (readingz) wrote,
Evalangui's
readingz

Poem: There's No Islands, Any More by Edna St. Vincent Millay

13.07.2013





Very sad... I'm not sure if it's sadder that there are no islands or that people didn't (and don't realise) because we all need our islands so badly, to be alone, to hide, to recover somehow after facing a world that does not give a fuck.





The poem:[Spoiler (click to open)]















http://www.arlindo-correia.com/060800.html







'There Are No Islands, Any More'







By EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY















"Lines Written in Passion and in Deep Concern for England, France and My Own Country"















Dear Isolationist, you are







So very, very insular!







Surely you do not take offense?-







The word's well used in such a sense.







'Tis you, not I, sir, who insist







You are an Isolationist.















And oh, how sweet a thing to be







Safe on an island, not at sea!







(Though some one said, some months ago-







I heard him, and he seemed to know;







Was it the German Chancellor?







"There are no islands anymore.")























Dear Islander, I envy you:







I'm very fond of islands, too;







And few the pleasures I have known







Which equaled being left alone.







Yet matters from without intrude







At times upon my solitude:







A forest fire, a dog run mad,







A neighbor stripped of all he had







By swindlers, or the shrieking plea







For help, of stabbed Democracy.















Startled, I rise, run from the room,







Join the brigade of spade and broom;







Help to surround the sickened beast;







Hear the account of farmers fleeced







By dapper men, condole, and give







Something to help them hope and live;







Or, if democracy's at stake,







Give more, give more than I can make;







And notice, with a rueful grin,







What was without is now within.















(The tidal wave devours the shore:







There are no islands any more.)















With sobbing breath, with blistered hands,







Men fight the forest fire in bands;







With kitchen broom, with branch of pine,







Beat at the blackened, treacherous line;







Before the veering wind fall back,







With eyebrows burnt and faces black;







While breasts in blackened streams perspire.







Watch how the wind runs with the fire







Like a broad banner up the hill-







And can no more... yet more must still.















New life!-To hear across the field







Voices of neighbours, forms concealed







By smoke, but loud the nearing shout:







"Hold on! We're coming! Here it's out!"















(The tidal wave devours the shore:







There are no islands any more.)















This little life from here to there-







Who lives it safely anywhere?







Not you, my insulated friend:







What calm composure will defend







Your rock, when tides you've never seen







Assault the sands of What-has-been,







And from your island's tallest tree,







You watch advance What-is-to-be?















(The tidal wave devours the shore:







There are no islands any more.)















Sweet, sweet, to see the tide approach,







Assured that it cannot encroach







Upon the beach-peas, often wet







With spray, never uprooted yet.







The moon said-did she not speak true?-







"The waves will not awaken you.







At my command the waves retire.







Sleep, weary mind; dream, heart's desire."















And yet, there was a Danish king







So sure he governed everything







He bade the ocean not to rise.







It did. And great was his surprise.















No man, no nation, is made free







By stating it intends to be.







Jostled and elbowed is the clown







Who thinks to walk alone in town.















We live upon a shrinking sphere-







Like it or not, our home is here;







Brave heart, uncomprehending brain







Could make it seem like home again.















(There are no islands any more.







The tide that mounts our drowsy shore







Is boats and men-there is no place







For waves in such a crowded space.















Oh, let us give, before too late,







To those who hold our country's fate







Along with theirs-be sure of this-







In grimy hands-that will not miss







The target, if we stand beside







Loading the guns-(resentment, pride,







Debts torn across with insolent word-







All this forgotten, or deferred







At least until there's time for strife







Concerning things less dear than Life;







Than let, if must be, in the brain







Resentment rankle once again,







Quibbling and Squabbling take the floor,







Cool Judgment go to sleep once more.)















On English soil, on French terrain,







Democracy's at grips again







With forces forged to stamp it out







This time no quarter!-since no doubt.















Not France, not England's what's involved,







Not we, --there's something to be solved







Of grave concern to free men all:







Can Freedom stand? -Must Freedom fall?















(Meantime, the tide devours the shore:







There are no islands any more.)















Oh, build, assemble, transport, give,







That England, France and we may live,







Before tonight, before too late,







To those who build our country's fate







In desperate fingers, reaching out







For weapons we confer about,







All that we can, and more, and now!







Oh, God, let not the lovely brow







Of Freedom in the trampled mud







Grow cold! Have we no brains, no blood,







No enterprise-no any thing







Of which we proudly talk and sing,







Which we like men can bring to bear







For Freedom, and against Despair?















Lest French and British fighters, deep







In battle, needing guns and sleep,







For lack of aid be overthrown







And we be left to fight alone.















The New York Times is indebted to Edna St. Vincent Millay, distinguished poetess, for the poem printed above, which she has submitted to several newspapers
































Tags: #poem, *author: female, +social issues, +violent, +war, 2013, 2013: poem, @read in english, author: edna st. vincent millay, literatura norteamericana/usa literature, literatura norteaméricana/USA literature, literature in english, •literatura inglesa/english literature
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