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Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain, Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink and rise and sink and rise and sink again. Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with death even as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, pinned down by need and moaning for release or nagged by want past resolutions power, I might be driven to sell you love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It may well be. I do not think I would. Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) Related Articles: Upon Julia's Clothes We Play at Paste What If I Say When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be When We Two Parted Who Ever Felt as I Wild Nights--Wild Nights! Wind and Window Flower  To our knowledge this poem is in the public domain. If you believe we have infringed any copyright laws please contact us and the offending material will be removed immediately.  The poetry on this site is for entertainment purposes only. See Full Disclaimer for more information. |
