Songs of Shattering

by Animals of Grace

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1.
I The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief of grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw,—it must have been Very pretty. II Let the little birds sing; Let the little lambs play; Spring is here; and so 'tis spring;— But not in the old way! I recall a place Where a plum-tree grew; There you lifted up your face, And blossoms covered you. If the little birds sing, And the little lambs play, Spring is here; and so 'tis spring— But not in the old way! III All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree! Ere spring was going—ah, spring is gone! And there comes no summer to the like of you and me,— Blossom time is early, but no fruit sets on. All the dog-wood blossoms are underneath the tree, Browned at the edges, turned in a day; And I would with all my heart they trimmed a mound for me, And weeds were tall on all the paths that led that way! -Edna St. Vincent Millay
2.
3.
Recuerdo 03:18
We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon. We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold. We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares. -Edna St. Vincent Millay
4.
Alms 03:17
My heart is what it was before, A house where people come and go; But it is winter with your love, The sashes are beset with snow. I light the lamp and lay the cloth, I blow the coals to blaze again; But it is winter with your love, The frost is thick upon the pane.. I know a winter when it comes: The leaves are listless on the boughs; I watched your love a little while, And brought my plants into the house. I water them and turn them south, I snap the dead brown from the stem; But it is winter with your love, I only tend and water them. There was a time I stood and watched The small, ill-natured sparrows' fray; I loved the beggar that I fed, I cared for what he had to say, I stood and watched him out of sight: Today I reach around the door And set a bowl upon the step; My heart is what it was before, But it is winter with your love; I scatter crumbs upon the sill, And close the window, —and the birds May take or leave them, as they will. -Edna St. Vincent Millay
5.
The Penitent 04:00
I had a little Sorrow, Born of a little Sin, I found a room all damp with gloom And shut us all within; And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I, "And, Little Sin, pray God to die, And I upon the floor will lie And think how bad I've been!" Alas for pious planning— It mattered not a whit! As far as gloom went in that room, The lamp might have been lit! My little Sorrow would not weep, My little Sin would go to sleep— To save my soul I could not keep My graceless mind on it! So I got up in anger, And took a book I had, And put a ribbon on my hair To please a passing lad, And, "One thing there's no getting by— I've been a wicked girl," said I: "But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!" -Edna St. Vincent Millay
6.
Exiled 04:06
Searching my heart for its true sorrow, This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people, Sick of the city, wanting the sea; Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness Of the strong wind and shattered spray; Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound Of the big surf that breaks all day. Always before about my dooryard, Marking the reach of the winter sea, Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood, Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea; Always I climbed the wave at morning, Shook the sand from my shoes at night, That now am caught beneath great buildings, Stricken with noise, confused with light. If I could hear the green piles groaning Under the windy wooden piers, See once again the bobbing barrels, And the black sticks that fence the weirs, If I could see the weedy mussels Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls, Hear once again the hungry crying Overhead, of the wheeling gulls, Feel once again the shanty straining Under the turning of the tide, Fear once again the rising freshet, Dread the bell in the fog outside,— I should be happy,—that was happy All day long on the coast of Maine! I have a need to hold and handle Shells and anchors and ships again! I should be happy, that am happy Never at all since I came here. I am too long away from water. I have a need of water near. -Edna St. Vincent Millay
7.
Grown Up 01:47
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? -Edna St. Vincent Millay
8.
God's World 02:45
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough! Thy winds, thy wide grey skies! Thy mists, that roll and rise! Thy woods, this autumn day, that ache and sag And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff! World, World, I cannot get thee close enough! Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,—Lord, I do fear Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,—let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. -Edna St. Vincent Millay
9.
(Originally titled "The Singing-Woman from the Woods Edge") What should I be but a prophet and a liar, Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar? Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water, What should I be but the fiend's god-daughter? And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog, That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog? And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar, But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter? You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe, As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby, You will find such flame at the wave's weedy ebb As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother's web, But there comes to birth no common spawn From the love a a priest for a leprechaun, And you never have seen and you never will see Such things as the things that swaddled me! After all's said and after all's done, What should I be but a harlot and a nun? In through the bushes, on any foggy day, My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away, With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth, A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth. And there'd sit my Ma, with her knees beneath her chin, A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in, And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying! He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin, He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin, He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil, And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil! Oh, the things I haven't seen and the things I haven't known, What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown, And yanked both way by my mother and my father, With a "Which would you better?" and a " Which would you rather?" With him for a sire and her for a dam, What should I be but just what I am? -Edna St. Vincent Millay
10.
There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man's door. (That's why I have not travelled more.) -Edna St. Vincent Millay
11.
Bluebeard 02:52
This door you might not open, and you did; So enter now, and see for what slight thing You are betrayed... Here is no treasure hid, No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain For greed like yours, no writhings of distress, But only what you see... Look yet again— An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless. Yet this alone out of my life I kept Unto myself, lest any know me quite; And you did so profane me when you crept Unto the threshold of this room to-night That I must never more behold your face. This now is yours. I seek another place. -Edna St. Vincent Millay
12.
Travel 03:38
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 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. -Edna St. Vincent Millay

about

Music inspired by the beautiful struggle between wilderness and urban spaces, using the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay.

credits

released July 26, 2015

Erika Lundahl- Vocals, 12- & 6-string guitar

Doug Indrick- Vocals, cajon, cigar-box bass, whistling and other percussion

Thanks to all of our wonderful Kickstarter supporters- we <3 you! Thanks also to the Edna St. Vincent Millay Society and our Washington, Oregon & New York friends & family. Special thanks to Steve Turnidge of UltraViolet Studios for making our first album mastering experience a good one. Extra special thanks to Weldon Debusk for his dedication, open-mindedness, cool-headedness and, of course, many hours spent recording, mixing and discussing SoS. We so appreciate your effort! Much gratitude to Heather Elder, Amanda Creech, and Kait Orr for your artful collaborations.

Album art by Heather Elder
Recorded and Mixed by Weldon Debusk
Mastered by Steve Turnidge at UltraViolet Studios
© Rolling Crone Records 2015

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