“Oh, God, what fun it is to be happy again, & to be writing romantic ardent nonsense to the only infant dragon-killer since Hercules wore didies.”
Edna St. Vincent Millay, letter to her lover, George Dillon, 1928
Eugen, I have met a man, a youngish
man. He is tall and slender,
with black wavy hair. He is a baby really,
an infant of twenty-one. He drawled,
“I’m George Dillon,” and he’s a poet.
What could I do but fall in love?
You will say he is too tender
for me, but what are fourteen years?
You say his lips cannot be as soft
as a young girl’s nipple, but they
are. You will like him too, Eugen, love,
I know it. You must. He admires you
already; you must meet soon.
Eugen, darling, my cavalier, you must
write George at once and invite him to
Steepletop. Invite him to stay with us.
He has taken a job in Chicago, poor
boy, so far from his Kentucky, too far
from New York for weekends. You must
convince him that I love him.
How could I not? Eugen, we must
show him the pool we built, and the
blueberry pasture. I will sit on his bed
and feed him an omelet, then we three will
drink coffee on the terrace, and be silly
and wise, like children.
Eugen, tell him I need him here. Tell him
I have written twenty-six sonnets. Put them
in your letter. I wrote them for him, but
two of the sonnets are for you, Eugen; you
must tell him so. Tell him we will
wash dishes and fire off our guns. Tell him
we will write beautiful sonnets, terrible
sonnets, and the poems will last,
whatever comes of love.
Tell him to come, Eugen.