Hyacinth

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am in love with him to whom a hyacinth is dearer
Than I shall ever be dear.
On nights when the field-mice are abroad he cannot
   sleep:
He hears their narrow teeth at the bulbs of his
   hyacinths.
But the gnawing at my heart he does not hear.


Monadnock Valley Press > Millay