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Puisi Bahasa Inggris tentang Kehidupan (Edna St. Vincent Millay)

Berikut beberapa contoh puisi Bahasa Inggris tentang kehidupan. Puisi di bawah merupakan buah karya Edna St. Vincent Millay. Edna St. Vincent Millay adalah penulis puisi dan drama dari Amerika. Edna pernah menerima penghargaan Pulitzer Prize for Poetry atas karyanya.


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?


Sorrow like a ceaseless rain
   Beats upon my heart.
People twist and scream in pain,—
Dawn will find them still again;
This has neither wax nor wane,
   Neither stop nor start.

People dress and go to town;
   I sit in my chair.
All my thoughts are slow and brown:
Standing up or sitting down
Little matters, or what gown
   Or what shoes I wear.

Ashes of Life

Love has gone and left me and the days are all alike;
   Eat I must, and sleep I will,—and would that night were here!
But ah!—to lie awake and hear the slow hours strike!
   Would that it were day again!—with twilight near!

Love has gone and left me and I don’t know what to do;
   This or that or what you will is all the same to me;
But all the things that I begin I leave before I’m through,—
   There’s little use in anything as far as I can see.

Love has gone and left me,—and the neighbours knock and borrow,
   And life goes on forever like the gnawing of a mouse,—
And to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow
   There’s this little street and this little house.

Kin to Sorrow

   Am I kin to Sorrow,
   That so oft
Falls the knocker of my door—
   Neither loud nor soft,
But as long accustomed,
   Under Sorrow’s hand?
Marigolds around the step
   And rosemary stand,
And then comes Sorrow—
   And what does Sorrow care
For the rosemary
   Or the marigolds there?
Am I kin to Sorrow?
   Are we kin?
That so oft upon my door—
   Oh, come in!

The Dream

Love, if I weep it will not matter,
   And if you laugh I shall not care;
Foolish am I to think about it,
   But it is good to feel you there.

Love, in my sleep I dreamed of waking,—
   White and awful the moonlight reached
Over the floor, and somewhere, somewhere,
   There was a shutter loose,—it screeched!

Swung in the wind,—and no wind blowing!—
   I was afraid, and turned to you,
Put out my hand to you for comfort,—
   And you were gone! Cold, cold as dew,

Under my hand the moonlight lay!
   Love, if you laugh I shall not care,
But if I weep it will not matter,—
   Ah, it is good to feel you there!


She is neither pink nor pale,
   And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
   And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
   In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
   Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
   And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
   And she never will be all mine.

The Philosopher

And what are you that, wanting you,
   I should be kept awake
As many nights as there are days
   With weeping for your sake?

And what are you that, missing you,
   As many days as crawl
I should be listening to the wind
   And looking at the wall?

I know a man that’s a braver man
   And twenty men as kind,
And what are you, that you should be
   The one man in my mind?

Yet women’s ways are witless ways,
   As any sage will tell,—
And what am I, that I should love
   So wisely and so well?


The railroad track is miles away,
   And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
   But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by,
   Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
   And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,
   And better friends I’ll not be knowing,
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
   No matter where it’s going.


People that build their houses inland,
   People that buy a plot of ground
Shaped like a house, and build a house there,
   Far from the sea-board, far from the sound

Of water sucking the hollow ledges,
   Tons of water striking the shore,—
What do they long for, as I long for
   One salt smell of the sea once more?

People the waves have not awakened,
   Spanking the boats at the harbour’s head,
What do they long for, as I long for,—
   Starting up in my inland bed,

Beating the narrow walls, and finding
   Neither a window nor a door,
Screaming to God for death by drowning,—
   One salt taste of the sea once more?

Song of a Second April

April this year, not otherwise
   Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
   Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
   Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.

There rings a hammering all day,
   And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
   The grey woodpecker taps and bores;
   And men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.

The larger streams run still and deep,
   Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
   Go up the hillside in the sun,
   Pensively,—only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.

When the Year Grows Old

I cannot but remember
   When the year grows old—
   How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
   Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
   With a little sharp sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
   Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
   Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her
   That I wish I could forget—
The look of a scared thing
   Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall
   The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
   Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,
   And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
   Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember
   When the year grows old—
   How she disliked the cold!

City Trees

The trees along this city street,
   Save for the traffic and the trains,
Would make a sound as thin and sweet
   As trees in country lanes.

And people standing in their shade
   Out of a shower, undoubtedly
Would hear such music as is made
   Upon a country tree.

Oh, little leaves that are so dumb
   Against the shrieking city air,
I watch you when the wind has come—
   I know what sound is there.


No matter what I say,
   All that I really love
Is the rain that flattens on the bay,
   And the eel-grass in the cove;
The jingle-shells that lie and bleach
   At the tide-line, and the trace
Of higher tides along the beach:
   Nothing in this place.

Elegy before Death

There will be rose and rhododendron
   When you are dead and under ground;
Still will be heard from white syringas
   Heavy with bees, a sunny sound;

Still will the tamaracks be raining
   After the rain has ceased, and still
Will there be robins in the stubble,
   Brown sheep upon the warm green hill.

Spring will not ail nor autumn falter;
   Nothing will know that you are gone,
Saving alone some sullen plough-land
   None but yourself sets foot upon;

Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed
   Nothing will know that you are dead,—
These, and perhaps a useless wagon
   Standing beside some tumbled shed.

Oh, there will pass with your great passing
   Little of beauty not your own,—
Only the light from common water,
   Only the grace from simple stone!

Puisi di atas diambil dari buku Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay




Puisi Bahasa Inggris tentang Kehidupan (Edna St. Vincent Millay)
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