Monday, December 7, 2009

Hyacinth by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am in love with him
To whom a hyacinth is dearer
Than I shall ever be dear.
On nights when the field-mice
Are abroad, he cannot sleep.
He hears their narrow teeth
At the bulbs of his hyacinths.
But the gnawing at my heart...
He does not hear.

Edna St. Vincent Millay