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First Fig by Edna St. Vincent Millay

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Still melancholy. I think I have failed you, March. I promised thirty-one poems and I am nowhere near there. I was fretting about this a few weeks ago, when my father, in a rare occasion where he acknowledges the fact that I write, told me to let it go and just let things happen. You cannot force it, he tells me. You can only sit and wait and then bleed (I am still wondering now if he was quoting Hemingway). He says this so casually before turning back to his work, like nothing happened. I am still stunned.

First Fig
Edna St. Vincent Millay

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—
It gives a lovely light!

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