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Let them bury your big eyes
In the secret earth securely,
Your thin fingers, and your fair,
Soft, indefinite-coloured hair,—
All of these in some way, surely,
From the secret earth shall rise;
Not for these I sit and stare,
Broken and bereft completely;
Your young flesh that sat so neatly
On your little bones will sweetly
Blossom in the air.
But your voice,—never the rushing
Of a river underground,
Not the rising of the wind
In the trees before the rain,
Not the woodcock’s watery call,
Not the note the white-throat utters,
Not the feet of children pushing
Yellow leaves along the gutters
In the blue and bitter fall,
Shall content my musing mind
For the beauty of that sound
That in no new way at all
Ever will be heard again.
Sweetly through the sappy stalk
Of the vigorous weed,
Holding all it held before,
Cherished by the faithful sun,
On and on eternally
Shall your altered fluid run,
Bud and bloom and go to seed;
But your singing days are done;
But the music of your talk
Never shall the chemistry
Of the secret earth restore.
All your lovely words are spoken.
Once the ivory box is broken,
Beats the golden bird no more.
Edna St. Vincent Millay’s Elegy is a haunting meditation on mortality, individuality, and the irretrievable essence of human existence. Written during a period of personal and cultural upheaval, the poem transcends its immediate context to grapple with universal questions of loss and legacy. By intertwining visceral imagery with philosophical depth, Millay crafts a work that mourns not just the physical dissolution of the body but the silencing of a unique voice-a theme resonating with her feminist ethos and modernist sensibilities.
Millay wrote Elegy against the backdrop of early 20th-century America, a time marked by rapid social change and the aftermath of World War I. Her bohemian lifestyle and advocacy for female autonomy (46) inform the poem’s preoccupation with individuality. The interwar period’s existential anxieties-loss of meaning, fragmentation of identity-surface in her focus on the irrevocable loss of the deceased’s voice. Unlike traditional elegies that seek consolation in nature or spirituality, Millay’s work reflects a modernist skepticism, rejecting easy resolutions in favor of stark honesty about mortality.
Millay employs contrasting imagery to articulate the tension between bodily decay and the persistence of memory:
Organic Regeneration vs. Irreparable Loss: The speaker acknowledges the body’s return to nature (“Your young flesh... / Blossom in the air”) but juxtaposes this with the voice’s extinction (“Never shall the chemistry / Of the secret earth restore”). The “vigorous weed” growing “on and on eternally” symbolizes nature’s indifference to human grief, while the “ivory box” and “golden bird” metaphors underscore the fragility of artistic or personal legacy.
Sensory Deprivation: The poem catalogues sounds that fail to substitute the lost voice-rivers underground, wind before rain, children shuffling leaves. This litany of absence amplifies the void left by the deceased, privileging auditory imagery to evoke the irreplaceability of individual expression.
Paradox of Preservation: The body’s transformation (“Cherished by the faithful sun”) contrasts with the voice’s silencing (“All your lovely words are spoken”). Millay subverts elegiac conventions by rejecting the notion that memory or nature can fully compensate for loss.
The Uniqueness of Voice: The poem elevates voice as the essence of identity. While the body dissolves into the natural cycle, the voice-a metaphor for individual agency and creativity-cannot be replicated. This aligns with Millay’s feminist defiance against societal constraints (4); the silenced voice becomes a metaphor for marginalized perspectives.
Grief as Isolation: The speaker’s “musing mind” remains unconsoled by nature’s continuity, highlighting the solitude of mourning. Unlike Romantic elegies that find solace in the sublime, Millay’s grief is intensely personal and unresolved.
Materialism vs. Transcendence: The “secret earth” restores physical matter but not the immaterial voice, suggesting a materialist worldview. The poem questions whether identity survives beyond the body, echoing modernist disillusionment with spiritual narratives.
Millay’s own life-marked by chronic pain, addiction (4), and a carceral sense of physical decline-infuses the poem with visceral immediacy. Her portrayal of the body’s fragility (“ivory box is broken”) may reflect her lived experience of bodily betrayal. Philosophically, the poem engages with existential themes: the finality of death negates the individual’s impact, reducing even the most vibrant voice to silence. Yet, the very act of elegizing the deceased becomes a defiant assertion of memory against oblivion.
Unlike Whitman’s When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d, which finds solace in nature’s cyclical renewal, Elegy refuses catharsis. Similarly, while Dylan Thomas’s Do Not Go Gentle rails against death’s inevitability, Millay’s tone is elegiac resignation. Her focus on voice’s extinction parallels Sylvia Plath’s later explorations of silenced female agency, though Millay’s restraint contrasts with Plath’s visceral intensity.
The poem’s power lies in its unflinching acknowledgment of loss’s totality. Lines like “But the music of your talk / Never shall the chemistry / Of the secret earth restore” resonate with anyone who has mourned a loved one’s irreplaceable presence. Millay’s restraint-eschewing sentimentalism for precise imagery-heightens the emotional weight, inviting readers to sit with discomfort rather than seek resolution.
Elegy stands as a testament to Millay’s ability to merge personal anguish with universal themes. By foregrounding the loss of voice, she critiques societal erasure of individuality while offering a poignant meditation on mortality. The poem’s enduring relevance lies in its refusal to sanitize grief, instead honoring the complexity of human attachment and the void left by its absence. In an age increasingly aware of voices silenced by oppression or time, Millay’s work remains a searing reminder of what it means to lose-and to remember.
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