And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you
Edna St. Vincent Millay
1892 to 1950
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And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you
through my life?—sharing my fire, my bed,
Sharing—oh, of all things!—the same head?—
And, when feed myself, feeding you, too?
So be it, then, what seems true, is true:
Let us to dinner, comrade, and be fed;—
I cannot die till you are dead,
And, with you living, I can live through.
Yet have you done me harm, ungracious guest,
upon my ardent offices
With frosty look; robbing my of rest;
And making harder things I did with ease.
You will die with me: but I shall, at best,
Forgive you with restraint, for deeds like these.
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