Want to track your favorites? Reopen or create a unique username. No personal details are required!
And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you
All through my life?—sharing my fire, my bed,
Sharing—oh, worst of all things!—the same head?—
And, when I feed myself, feeding you, too?
So be it, then, if what seems true, is true:
Let us to dinner, comrade, and be fed;—
I cannot die till you yourself are dead,
And, with you living, I can live life through.
Yet have you done me harm, ungracious guest,
Spying upon my ardent offices
With frosty look; robbing my nights 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.
Edna St. Vincent Millay’s sonnet “And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you” is a striking meditation on the inescapability of suffering and the complex relationship between the self and enduring agony. Written with Millay’s characteristic precision and emotional intensity, the poem explores themes of resignation, endurance, and reluctant coexistence with pain. This essay will examine the poem’s historical and cultural context, its literary devices, thematic concerns, and emotional resonance, while also considering Millay’s biographical influences and philosophical underpinnings.
Millay (1892–1950) was a central figure in early 20th-century American poetry, known for her lyrical sonnets and rebellious spirit. Emerging during the modernist period, her work often blended traditional forms with contemporary sensibilities, reflecting both personal and societal upheavals. The early 20th century was marked by the aftermath of World War I, the Great Depression, and shifting gender roles—all of which influenced Millay’s writing.
This poem, published in The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems (1923), reflects a broader modernist preoccupation with existential suffering. Unlike the grand, externalized tragedies of Romantic poetry, Millay’s pain is intimate, internal, and inescapable—a companion rather than an adversary. This introspective approach aligns with modernist tendencies toward psychological depth and disillusionment, yet Millay’s formal mastery (here, the sonnet) anchors her work in classical tradition.
Though the poem adheres to the sonnet form, its power lies not in its rhyme scheme but in its rhetorical force and figurative language. Millay employs several key devices:
The poem’s central conceit is the personification of Pain as an unwelcome yet inescapable companion. The direct address (“Pain, live with you”) establishes an intimate, almost conversational tone, as if the speaker is reasoning with an obstinate housemate. This technique amplifies the emotional weight, making abstract suffering tangible.
Millay’s tone oscillates between resignation and bitter irony. The speaker’s invitation to Pain—“Let us to dinner, comrade, and be fed”—is sardonic, acknowledging the futility of resistance. The word “comrade” is particularly loaded, suggesting forced camaraderie rather than genuine fellowship. This irony underscores the poem’s central tension: Pain is both an enemy and an inescapable part of existence.
The poem thrives on contradictions. Pain is both a “guest” and an invader; the speaker must “live life through” because of Pain, yet cannot die until Pain does. This paradox reflects the human condition—suffering is what makes life unbearable, yet it is also what keeps one alive, as numbness or indifference might be worse.
Millay grounds abstract suffering in physical terms: “sharing my fire, my bed,” “feeding you, too,” “robbing my nights of rest.” These tactile images make Pain palpable, transforming it from an idea into a corporeal presence. The domesticity of the imagery (dinner, bed, fire) suggests that Pain is not a fleeting visitor but a permanent resident in the speaker’s life.
The poem’s opening line—“And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you / All through my life?”—frames suffering as an inevitability. Unlike fleeting sorrow, this Pain is a lifelong companion. The question is rhetorical, already resigned to the answer. This reflects a Stoic or even existentialist outlook: suffering is intrinsic to existence, and resistance is futile.
Rather than raging against Pain, the speaker negotiates with it. The shift from resistance (“must I…?”) to reluctant acceptance (“So be it, then”) suggests a weary wisdom. The conditional forgiveness in the final lines (“I shall, at best, / Forgive you with restraint”) implies that while Pain may be endured, it will never be embraced.
Pain is both destructive and sustaining. The speaker acknowledges that while Pain “rob[s] my nights of rest,” it also ensures survival (“I cannot die till you yourself are dead”). This duality echoes Keats’s concept of “negative capability”—the idea that beauty and suffering are intertwined.
Millay’s life was marked by physical and emotional suffering. She endured chronic illness, heartbreak, and the pressures of fame, all of which may inform this poem’s tone of exhausted endurance. Her relationships were often tumultuous, and her later years were plagued by addiction and declining health. While it is reductive to read the poem as purely autobiographical, her personal struggles lend authenticity to its portrayal of Pain as an ever-present force.
Millay’s treatment of Pain invites comparison with other poets:
John Keats’ “Ode on Melancholy”: Both poems explore suffering as an inseparable part of human experience, though Keats frames it as intertwined with joy, while Millay presents it as a relentless burden.
Emily Dickinson’s “Pain—has an Element of Blank”: Dickinson’s Pain is all-consuming and timeless, much like Millay’s, though Dickinson’s imagery is more abstract.
Sylvia Plath’s “Lady Lazarus”: Plath’s personification of suffering as a haunting presence shares Millay’s visceral intensity, though Plath’s tone is more defiant.
What makes Millay’s poem so resonant is its balance of weariness and wit. The speaker does not succumb to melodrama but instead meets Pain with a grim, almost sarcastic acceptance. This emotional restraint makes the suffering more poignant—there is no cathartic outburst, only a quiet, enduring acknowledgment.
Ultimately, “And must I then, indeed, Pain, live with you” is a masterful exploration of human resilience. It does not offer solace or resolution but instead presents suffering as an inescapable companion—one that must be grudgingly tolerated, if never fully forgiven. In this, Millay captures a universal truth: Pain may shape our lives, but it does not have to define our spirit.
This text was generated by AI and is for reference only. Learn more