Do I not know what savage blossom only under the
Of your inclement season could have prospered?
Green leaves to wade in, and of the many roads not
one road leading outward from this place
But is blocked by boughs that will hiss and simmer
when they burn – green autumn, lady, green
autumn on this land!
Do I not know what inward pressure only could inflate
its petals to withstand
(No, no, not hate, not hate) the onslaught of a little
time with you?
No, no, not love, not love. Call it by name,
Now that it’s over, now that it is gone and cannot
It was an honest thing. Not noble. Yet no shame.
“What Savage Blossom” – Edna St. Vincent Millay