Not Even My Pride Shall Suffer Much by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Not even my pride shall suffer much; Not even my pride at all, maybe, If this ill-timed, intemperate clutch Be loosed by you and not by me, Will suffer; I have been so true A vestal to that only pride Wet wood cannot extinguish, nor Sand, nor its embers scattered, for, See all these years, it has not died.
And if indeed, as I dare think, You cannot push this patient flame, By any breath your lungs could store, Even for a moment to the floor To crawl there, even for a moment crawl, What can you mix for me to drink That shall deflect me? What you do Is either malice, crude defense Of ego, or indifference: I know these things as well as you; You do not dazzle me at allâ€”
Some love, and some simplicity, Might well have been the death of meâ€”