Sometimes when I am wearied suddenly,
Of all the things that are the outward you,
And my
gaze wanders ere your tale is through
To webs of my own
weaving, or I see
Abstractedly your hands about your knee
And wonder why I love you as I do,
Then I recall, "Yet
Sorrow thus he drew";
Then I consider, "
Pride thus painted he."
Oh, friend, forget not, when you fain would note
In me a
beauty that was never mine,
How first you knew me in a
book I wrote,
How first you loved me for a
written line:
So are we bound till broken is the
throat
Of
Song, and
Art no more leads out the Nine.
--from The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems, Edna St. Vincent Millay