And do you think that love itself, <br />Living in such an ugly house, <br />Can prosper long? <br /> We meet and part; <br />Our talk is all of heres and nows, <br />Our conduct likewise; in no act <br />Is any future, any past; <br />Under our sly, unspoken pact, <br />I KNOW with whom I saw you last, <br />But I say nothing; and you know <br />At six-fifteen to whom I go— <br />Can even love be treated so? <br /> <br />I KNOW, but I do not insist, <br />Having stealth and tact, thought not enough, <br />What hour your eye is on your wrist. <br /> <br />No wild appeal, no mild rebuff <br />Deflates the hour, leaves the wine flat— <br /> <br />Yet if YOU drop the picked-up book <br />To intercept my clockward look— <br />Tell me, can love go on like that? <br /> <br />Even the bored, insulted heart, <br />That signed so long and tight a lease, <br />Can BREAK it CONTRACT, slump in peace.<br /><br />Edna St. Vincent Millay<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/and-do-you-think-that-love-itself/
