Sonnet Tucked Away

I don't like poetry as a general rule.   I do, however, love the following by Edna St. Vincent Millay which I socked away in a drawer on a little piece of crumpled, folded paper:

Love 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.