Status Updates From Early Works of Edna St. Vin...

"Ah, I am worn out—I am wearied out—
It is too much—I am but flesh and blood,
And I must sleep. Though you were dead again,
I am but flesh and blood and I must sleep." — p. 17

Spring is such a pessimistic, cynical look at the "idiot" season, that I can't help but laugh and love it. How often is poetry about spring written from the grouch's perspective?

Grown Up
Was it for this I uttered prayers
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half- past eight?

"Dark, Dark, is all I find for metaphor;
All else were contrast,- save that contrast's wall
Is down, and all opposed things flow together
In a vast monotony, where night
And day, and frost and thaw, and death and life,
Are synonyms."

From Interim:
"And yet,-I am not sure. I am not sure,
Even, if it was white or pink; for then
'Twas much like any other flower to me,
Save that it was the first. I did not know,
Then, that it was the last..."