Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find 
The roots of last year's roses in my breast; 
I am as surely riper in my mind 
As if the fruit stood in the stalls confessed. 
Laugh at the unshed leaf, say what you will, 
Call me in all things what I was before, 
A flutterer in the wind, a woman still; 
I tell you I am what I was and more.

My branches weigh me down, frost cleans the air, 
My sky is black with small birds bearing south; 
Say what you will, confuse me with fine care, 
Put by my word as but an April truth,“
Autumn is no less on me that a rose 
Hugs the brown bough and sighs before it goes.