Vincent Millay
And do you think that
love itself,
Living in such an ugly house,
Can prosper long?
We meet
and part;
Our talk is all of heres and nows,
Our conduct likewise; in no
act
Is any future, any past;
Under our sly, unspoken pact,
I KNOW with
whom I saw you last,
But I say nothing; and you know
At six-fifteen to
whom I go—
Can even love be treated so?
I KNOW, but I do not
insist,
Having stealth and tact, thought not enough,
What hour your eye is
on your wrist.
No wild appeal, no mild rebuff
Deflates the hour,
leaves the wine flat—
Yet if YOU drop the picked-up book
To intercept
my clockward look—
Tell me, can love go on like that?
Even the bored,
insulted heart,
That signed so long and tight a lease,
Can BREAK it
CONTRACT, slump in peace.
