Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sonnet 79

Fatal Interview
Strange thing that I, by nature nothing prone To fret the summer blossom on its stem, Who know the hidden nest, but leave alone The magic eggs, the bird that cuddles them, Should have no place till your bewildered heart Hung fluttering at the window of my breast, Till I had ravished to my bitter smart Your kiss from the stern moment, could not rest. "Swift wing, sweet blossom, live again in air! Depart, poor flower; poor feather you are free!" Thus do I cry, being teased by shame and care That beauty should be brought to terms by me; Yet shamed the more that in my heart I know, Cry as I may, I could not let you go.