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 can not 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 pain 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 well may be. I do not think I would. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay, "Love is Not All" (Sonnet XXX), from Collected Poems. Copyright 1931, 1934, 1939, © 1958 by Edna St. Vincent Millay and Norma Millay Ellis. Reprinted with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Holly Peppe, Literary Executor, The Millay Society. www.millay.org.

When we two parted
   In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
   To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
   Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
   Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
   Sunk chill on my brow— 
It felt like the warning
   Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
   And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
   And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
   A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me—
   Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
   Who knew thee too well—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
   Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
   In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
   Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
   After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
   With silence and tears.

This poem is in the public domain.

Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

This poem is in the public domain.

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on February 10, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

by Lewis Howard Latimer in 1890

electricity, like air around us, seems impalpable, appeals
to so few senses. but it is capable of being measured,

because my husband leaves lights on throughout the house
as though placing bookmarks. at night, I waltz across rooms

and unmark his pages, twist knobs on lamps’ necks,
flick switches, power us down. this sounds like a complaint,

but it’s how we communicate: he opens the curtains, I close them
minutes later. he puts the dogs out for breeze and sun, I call them

back. I whistle, he picks up the tune, so I relinquish the song. discovery
of the familiar: the language of electricity, the incandescent patent filed

first, fine pen, labeled parts, application slapped on a desk for permission
to write the first chapter. every once and a while, I look up in this house,

and I find there’s not the right light, so I buy fixtures and he installs them:
cuts power, wraps black tape, twists wires until his arms are sore. I take

the victory and twist new bulbs for their first glow. as for the old?
each time, I shake them for the filmament’s soft bell. we happily

confine ourselves to this age of light. we understand the parts, the actions
upon each other—but without entering too deeply into their intricacies.

Copyright © 2022 Jean Prokott. Originally published by Hennepin History Museum. Reprinted by permission of the author.

I dreamed my Lady and I were dead 
    And dust was either heart;
Our bodies in one grave were laid, 
    Our souls went far apart, 
Hers with the saints for aye to dwell
And mine to lie and pine in Hell. 

But when my Lady looked for me 
    And found her quest in vain, 
For all that blessed company 
    She knew nothing but pain. 
She cried: “How feigned your praising is!
Your God is love, and love I miss.”

The hills whereon her tear-drops fell 
    Were white with lily-flowers.
They made the burning caves of Hell 
    As green as Eden-bowers, 
Unloosed my tongue, my fetters broke, 
“Praised be love,” I cried and woke. 

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on June 30, 2024, by the Academy of American Poets.