Not even my pride shall suffer much; <br />Not even my pride at all, maybe, <br />If this ill-timed, intemperate clutch <br />Be loosed by you and not by me, <br />Will suffer; I have been so true <br />A vestal to that only pride <br />Wet wood cannot extinguish, nor <br />Sand, nor its embers scattered, for, <br />See all these years, it has not died. <br /> <br />And if indeed, as I dare think, <br />You cannot push this patient flame, <br />By any breath your lungs could store, <br />Even for a moment to the floor <br />To crawl there, even for a moment crawl, <br />What can you mix for me to drink <br />That shall deflect me? What you do <br />Is either malice, crude defense <br />Of ego, or indifference: <br />I know these things as well as you; <br />You do not dazzle me at all— <br /> <br />Some love, and some simplicity, <br />Might well have been the death of me—<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-even-my-pride-shall-suffer-much/
