Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

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—

1. Assault
2. Tavern
3. Sonnets 11: As To Some Lovely Temple, Tenantless
4. Eel-Grass
5. Witch-Wife

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