O ailing Love

Edna St. Vincent Millay

1892 to 1950

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Track 1

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Hitching and rearing, plunging beak to loam,
O ailing Love, compose your struggling wing!
Dragging in dust its feathers of the sky,
Vanish, be fled, leave me a wingless land . . .
While yet your awful beauty, even at bay,
Fades a white swan, with a black swan beside.
Upturned, disheveled, utt’ring a weak sound
Save where one moment down the quiet tide
Less kind than of the hawk that scours the ground.
How better dead, than be this awkward thing
Less proud than of the gull that rakes the foam,
Confess you mortal; be content to die.
And what your hue or fashion none can say,
Beats off the impious eye, the outstretched hand,

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