Edna St. Vincent Millay

I saw and heard, and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, and present, and forevermore.

But she was not made for any man, and she will never be all mine.

The first rose on my rose-tree Budded, bloomed, and shattered, During sad days when to me Nothing mattered. Grief or grief has drained me clean; Still it seems a pity No one saw,—it must have been Very pretty.

You are loved. If so, what else matters?

And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you all through my life?-sharing my fire, my bed, Sharing-oh, worst of all things!-the same head?- And, when I feed myself, feeding you too?

Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.

This book, when I am dead, will be A little faint perfume of me. People who knew me well will say, She really used to think that way.

Guess I'll weep awhile. Guess I won't, I mean.

I, being born a woman and distressed By all the needs and notions of my kind.

And he whose soul is flat -- the sky Will cave in on him by and by.