Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sonnet 81

Fatal Interview
Olympian gods, mark now my bedside lamp Blown out; and be advised too late that he Whom you call sire is stolen into the camp Of warring Earth, and lies abed with me. Call out your golden hordes, the harm is done: Enraptured in his great embrace I lie; Shake heaven with spears, but I shall bear a son Branded with godhead, heel and brow and thigh. Whom think not to bedazzle or confound With meteoric splendours of display Of blackened moons or suns or the big sound Of sudden thunder on a silent day; Pain and compassion shall he know, being mine, — Confusion never, that is half divine.