Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I, Being Born a Woman

I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity,--let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.

1. The Last White Sawdust
2. Loving You Less Than Life
3. Still Will I Harvest Beauty
4. She Filled Her Arms with Wood
5. How Healthily Their Feet

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