I’ve been staying up way too late the last few nights, reading Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay.  I found a book of her collected poems at an estate sale last weekend, that includes the following poem:Edna St. Vincent Millay

Autumn Daybreak

Cold wind of autumn, blowing loud
At dawn, a fortnight overdue,
Jostling the doors, and tearing through
My bedroom to rejoin the cloud.

I know — for I can hear that hiss
And scrape of leaves along the floor —
How many boughs, lashed bare by this,
Will rake the cluttered sky once more.

Tardy, and somewhat south of east,
The sun will rise at length, made known
More by the meagre light increased
Than by a disk in splendour shown;

When, having but to turn my head,
Through the stripped maple I shall see,
Bleak and remembered, patched with red,
The hill all summer hid from me.

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