My apparently exciting life as a starving artist in New York City.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Edna St. Vincent Millay Might Be My Hero
Let you not say of me when I am old, In pretty worship of my withered hands, Forgetting who I am, and how the sands Of such a life as mine run red and gold Even to the ultimate sifting dust, "Behold, Here walketh passionless age!"--for there expands A curious superstition in these lands, And by its leave some weightless tales are told.
In me no lenten wicks watch out the night; I am the booth where Folly holds her fair; Impious no less in ruin than in strength. When I lie crumbled to the earth at length, Let you not say, "Upon this reverend site The righteous groaned and beat their breasts in prayer."