Poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay

* * *

Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly
Of all the things that are the outward you,
And my gaze wanders ere your tale is through
To webs of my own weaving, or I see
Abstractedly your hands about your knee
And wonder why I love you as I do,
Then I recall, “Yet Sorrow thus he drew”;
Then I consider, “Pride thus painted he.”
Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note
In me a beauty that was never mine,
How first you knew me in a book I wrote,
How first you loved me for a written line:
So are we bound till broken is the throat
Of Song, and Art no more leads out the Nine.

1. I See So Clearly Now My Similar Years
2. Lord Archer, Death
3. Still Will I Harvest Beauty
4. From the Wan Dream
5. What’s This of Death, from You Who Never Will Die?

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