I Would Blossom If I Were A

I, Being Born A Woman And Distressed By All The Needs And Notions Of My Kind.

I Drank At Every Vine, The Last Was Like The First. I Came Upon No Wine So Wonderful As Thirst.

A Poem From Edna St. Vincent Millay: Grown-up Was It For This I Uttered Prayers, And Sobbed And Cursed And Kicked The Stairs, That Now, Domestic As A Plate, I Should Retire At Half-past Eight?

All My Life, Following Care Along The Dusty Road, Have I Looked Back On Loveliness And Sighed.

How Strange A Thing Is Death, Bringing To His Knees, Bringing To His Antlers The Buck In The Snow . . . Life, Looking Out Attentive From The Eyes Of The Doe.