brigdh

Sonnet VIII by Edna St. Vincent Millay

When did I ever deny, though this was fleeting, 
That this was love? When did I ever, I say, 
With iron thumbs put out the eyes of the day
 In this cold world where charity lies bleating
 Under a thorn, and none to give him greeting,
 And all that lights endeavour on its way 
Is the teased lamp of loving, the torn ray
 Of the least kind, the most clandestine meeting? 
As God's my judge, I do cry holy, holy,
 Upon the name of love however brief,
 For want of whose ill-trimmed, aspiring wick
 More days than one i have gone forward slowly 
In utter dark, scuffling the drifted leaf, 
Tapping the road before me with a stick.