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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.
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Poem ID: 68644   Poem Posted: 2/19/2002
Viewed: 141843  Voted On: 867  E-mailed: 175  Commented On: 2
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