O sweet love, sweet thorn, when I was
you gets to the heart, piano, and killed,
to lie abandoned in the grass, poor thing
soaked with tears and weeping of the rain in the evening, from
night mist gray days
which disperses the clouds into the light
between the singing of birds to the new sun - if I
, sweet love, sweet thorn,
thought then as acute anxiety,
even if you compensate for the oath, the
' happy hour can be left in the breast,
I would not be so quick to rush
sign at the bottom of who loved me so little.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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