{random poetry #64}

i shall forget you presently, my dear,
so make the most of this, your little day,
your little month, your little half a year,
ere i forget, or die, or move away,
and we are done forever; by and by
i shall forget you, as i said, but now,
if you entreat me with your loveliest lie
i will protest you with my favorite vow.
i would indeed that love were longer-lived,
and vows were not so brittle as they are,
but so it is, and nature has contrived
to struggle on without a break thus far,
whether or not we find what we are seeking
is idle, biologically speaking.
Millay, E. (1892-1950), "Sonnet IV" in Shenandoah online (v.63, no. 1, Fall 2013)