by Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York: Mitchell Kennerley. 1921. 12mo, viii+112 pp. $2.00.
EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY is a poet without a mannerism. She is therefore as rare and noticeable an apparition as a blue moon or a lovely Dodo, in our self-conscious and mannered time. Her poetry is never ‘derived’; she is the understudy of no chosen master, the exploiter of no theory or special brand of verse. She never clutters her pages with the second-hand, or with the merely ornamental, or with the merely smart.
There is not a particle of padding or of junk in this book. Consequently the book is thin. But the poems themselves, though absolutely condensed, are not slight. Probably a good third of them are in the great tradition. Some of the best are ‘Journey,’ “Low Tide,’ ‘Wild Swans,’ ‘Rosemary,’ ‘Alms.’ ‘Exiled,’ ‘The Beanstalk.’ and the sonnets, notably the one beginning —
Into the golden vessel of great song Let us pour all our passion.
This poet is most fortunate when she writes of the sea, and of the ‘frugal house’ of love. She is least fortunate when she writes of death, a business which she treats in an entirely explicit gravedigger’s mood. She is most penetrating when she writes of weariness.
. . . I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road,
Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed.
. . . All my life long
Over my shoulder have I looked at peace;
And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes.
. . . Whip-poor-wills Wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait.
It is a pity not to quote the whole poem. It is a pity not to quote the whole book.
James Huneker’s ‘Steeplejack’ says that, when he had climbed the steeple of the thoughts of modern men, he found at the top of the spire, not a cross, but a weathercock — that ‘glowing symbol of the New Man, a weathercock and a mighty twirling. Now, Miss Millay is no special investigator of church-spires. She does, however, suggest the modern dizziness, the mighty twirling, by Way of her excellent beanstalk and certain other poems. And she suggests the daring altitudes as well.
Probably she has not yet sealed the top of her ‘Singing Mountain.’ Certainly there are crags of ultimate nobility that she has not reached. She is young and reckless in her rather lovely philosophy of denial:—
Beauty is not enough.
Life in itself Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
This is in the tone of the brilliant young empress who can afford to be desperate.
The book as a whole is in the tone of a brilliant young poet who can afford to be clear.
FRANCES LESTER WARNER.