XVII

Loving you less than life, a little less
Than bitter-sweet upon a broken wall
Or brush-wood smoke in autumn, I confess
I cannot swear I love you not at all.
For there is that about you in this light--
A yeelow darkness, sinster of rain--
Which sturdily recalls my stubborn sight
To dwell on you, and dwell on you again.
And I am made aware of many a week
I shall consume, remembering in what way
Your brown hair grows about your brow and cheek,
And what divine absrdities you say:
Till all the world, and I, and surely you,
Will know I love you, whether or not I do.

-- Edna St. Vincent Millay