Thursday, November 15, 2007

XLVII by Edna Vincent Millay

Well, I have lost you and I lost you fairly;
In my own way, and with my full consent,
Say what you will kings in a tumbril rarely
Went to their deaths more proud than this one went.
Some night of apprehension and hot weeping
I will confess; but that's permitted me:
Day dried my eyes; I was not one for keeping
Rubbed in a cage a wing that would be free.
If I have loved you less or played you slyly
I might have held you for a summer more,
But at the cost of words I value highly,
And no such summer as the one before.
Should I outlive this anguish--and men do--
I shall have only one good to say of you.

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