Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sonnet 118

Fatal Interview
There is a well into whose bottomless eye, Though I were flayed, I dare not lean and look, Sweet once with mountain water, now gone dry, Miraculously abandoned by the brook Wherewith for years miraculously fed It kept a constant level cold and bright, Though summer parched the rivers in their bed; Withdrawn these waters, vanished overnight. There is a word I dare not speak again, A face I never again must call to mind; I was not craven ever nor blenched at pain, But pain to such degree and of such kind As I must suffer if I think of you, Not in my senses will I undergo.