Sonnet XXX by Edna St. Vincent MillayLove is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
and rise and sink and rise and sink again.
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
pinned down by need and moaning for release
or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It may well be. I do not think I would.From Fatal Interview (1931)
without a blemish or a worm
Bite into it and you will find
You've found your heart and lost your mind.
—Brooke Astor, in The New Yorker
Do you have a favorite love poem? I confess a fondness for the thoughts of ancient Japanese women poets on the subject.