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. There Was upon the Sill
2. Gazing upon Him Now
3. She Had a Horror
4. The Doctor Asked Her
5. So She Came Back

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