by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Weep him dead and mourn as you may,
   Me, I sing as I must:
Blessed be Death, that cuts in marble
   What would have sunk to dust!

Blessed be Death, that took my love
   And buried him in the sea,
Where never a lie nor a bitter word
   Will out of his mouth at me.

This I have to hold to my heart,
   This to take by the hand:
Sweet we were for a summer month
   As the sun on the dry white sand;

Mild we were for a summer month
   As the wind from over the weirs.
And blessed be Death, that hushed with salt
   The harsh and slovenly years!

Who builds her a house with love for timber
   Builds her a house of foam.
And I'd rather be bride to a lad gone down
   Than widow to one safe home.

Monadnock Valley Press > Millay