Love, though
for this you riddle me with darts,
And drag me
at your chariot till I die, —
Oh, heavy
prince! Oh, panderer of hearts! —
Yet hear me
tell how in their throats they lie
Who shout
you mighty: thick about my hair,
Day in, day
out, your ominous arrows purr,
Who still am
free, unto no querulous care
A fool, and
in no temple worshiper!
I, that have
bared me to your quiver's fire,
Lifted my
face into its puny rain,
Do wreathe you
Impotent to Evoke Desire
As you are
Powerless to Elicit Pain!
(Now will
the god, for blasphemy so brave,
Punish me,
surely, with the shaft I crave!)
(Edna St. Vincent Millay)