Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Witch-Wife

She is neither pink nor pale,
        And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
        And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
        In the sun ’tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
        Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can, 
        And her ways to my ways resign; 
But she was not made for any man, 
        And she never will be all mine.

1. Sometimes When I Am Wearied
2. When You, That at This Moment
3. I See So Clearly Now My Similar Years
4. Lord Archer, Death
5. She Filled Her Arms with Wood

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