forget the epitaph

When we were in New York, I went to see Suffs on Broadway with my mom. It was great—I have notes, of course, but overall I really enjoyed it, and I'm really glad I got to see it—and when I got home (or rather, back to the hotel) I obviously ended up reading up on the historical figures I didn't know as much about. This is how I learned that after Inez Milholland died, her husband married Edna St. Vincent Millay, who then WROTE A POEM about her husband's dead wife. Because, like, obviously. So this is the poem I would have posted on April 19, if I hadn't already been in bed and half-asleep when I learned of its existence.

                        Read in Washington, November eighteenth, 1923, at the unveiling of a statue
                        of three leaders in the cause of Equal Rights for Women

Upon this marble bust that is not I
Lay the round, formal wreath that is not fame;
But in the forum of my silenced cry
Root ye the living tree whose sap is flame.
I, that was proud and valiant, am no more;—
Save as a dream that wanders wide and late,
Save as a wind that rattles the stout door,
Troubling the ashes in the sheltered grate.
The stone will perish; I shall be twice dust.
Only my standard on a taken hill
Can cheat the mildew and the red-brown rust
And make immortal my adventurous will.
Even now the silk is tugging at the staff:
Take up the song; forget the epitaph.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), "To Inez Milholland," 1923. I wouldn't say it's Edna's best work, but there's still something about it that really does land.