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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 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. |
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| ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay ~ |
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