A Few Figs from Thistles

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose; How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose?

(Lord God in Heaven, will it never be dawn?)

After all's said and after all's done, What should I be but a harlot and a nun?

Grown-up Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?

walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme, A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.

I am most faithless when I most am true.

Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking.