Be to her, Persephone, All the things I might not be; Take her head upon your knee. She that was so proud and wild, Flippant, arrogant and free, She that had no need of me, Is a little lonely child Lost in Hell,—Persephone, Take her head upon your knee; Say to her, "My dear, my dear, It is not so dreadful here."
Return to the Edna St. Vincent Millay library , or . . . Read the next poem; Recuerdo