Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow
Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath
Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.
That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain.
© Edna St. Vincent Millay
Some other works of this poet:
- Lines Written In Recapitulation
- Sonnet: “When I Too Long Have Looked Upon Your Face”
- Sonnet: “How Healthily Their Feet Upon The Floor”
- Sonnet: “We Talk Of Taxes, And I Call You Friend”
- Fontaine, Je Ne Boirai Pas De Ton Eau!
- Whereas At Morning In A Jeweled Crown
- Sonnet: “Your Face Is Like A Chamber Where A King”
- Lines For A Grave-Stone