I only know that every hour with you
Is torture to me, and that I would be
From your two poignant lovelinesses free!
Rainbows, green fire, white diamonds, the fierce blue
Of shimmering ice-bergs, or to be shot through
With lightning or a sword incessantly–
Such things have beauty, doubtless; but to me
Mist, shadow, silence–these are lovely, too.
There is no shelter in you anywhere;
Rhythmic intolerable, your burning rays
Trample upon me, withering my breath;
I will be gone, and rid of you, I swear:
To stand upon the peaks of Love always
Proves but that part of Love whose name is Death.
Edna St. Vincent Millay