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Edna St. Vincent Millay (Эдна Сент-Винсент Миллей)


* * *


Not even my pride shall suffer much;
Not even my pride at all, maybe,
If this ill-timed, intemperate clutch
Be loosed by you and not by me,
Will suffer; I have been so true
A vestal to that only pride
Wet wood cannot extinguish, nor
Sand, nor its embers scattered, for,
See all these years, it has not died.

And if indeed, as I dare think,
You cannot push this patient flame,
By any breath your lungs could store,
Even for a moment to the floor
To crawl there, even for a moment crawl,
What can you mix for me to drink
That shall deflect me? What you do
Is either malice, crude defense 
Of ego, or indifference:
I know these things as well as you;
You do not dazzle me at all— 

Some love, and some simplicity,
Might well have been the death of me—



Edna St. Vincent Millay's other poems:
  1. Renascence
  2. Second Fig
  3. Memorial to D.C.
  4. Whereas At Morning In A Jeweled Crown
  5. The True Encounter


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