We talk of taxes, and I call you friend; <br />Well, such you are,—but well enough we know <br />How thick about us root, how rankly grow <br />Those subtle weeds no man has need to tend, <br />That flourish through neglect, and soon must send <br />Perfume too sweet upon us and overthrow <br />Our steady senses; how such matters go <br />We are aware, and how such matters end. <br />Yet shall be told no meagre passion here; <br />With lovers such as we forevermore <br />Isolde drinks the draught, and Guinevere <br />Receives the Table's ruin through her door, <br />Francesca, with the loud surf at her ear, <br />Lets fall the colored book upon the floor.<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnets-01-we-talk-of-taxes-and-i-call-you-frien/
