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 can not 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 pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.
~~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
[I do not think I would, either. ~GH]
1 comment:
Ted,
Thanks for stopping by and commenting! I just now sifted through all the spam and saw your comments.
Yes, indeed, without Love, we would be and have nothing at all. I appreciate this poem so much. Like how she starts off saying Love is not all, and ends up flipping that on its head.
Ginger :)
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