Do I not know what savage blossom only under the

pitting hail

Of your inclement season could have prospered?

Here lie

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

hear us.

It was an honest thing. Not noble. Yet no shame.


“What Savage Blossom” – Edna St. Vincent Millay