Edna St. Vincent Millay





Sonnet 65

Not that it matters, not that my heart's cry
Is potent to reflect our common doom,
Or bind to truce in this ambiguous room
The planets of the atoms as they ply;
But only to record that you and I,
Like thieves that scratch the jewels from a tomb,
Have gathered delicate love in hardy bloom
Close under Chaos, — I rise to testify.
This is my testament: that we are taken;
Our colors are clouds before the wind;
Yet for a moment stood the foe forsaken,
Eyeing Love's favour to our helmet pinned;
Death is our Master, — but his seat is shaken;
He rides victorious, — but his ranks are thinned.