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Collected Sonnets of Edna St. Vincent Millay
Miscellaneous
I
I know not why I am so loath to lay
Your yellow leaves along the glowing log,
Unburied dead, that cling about and clog —
With indisputable, insistent say
Of the stout past's all inefficient fray —
The striving present, rising like a fog
To rust the active in me, that am a cog
In the great wheel of industry today.
Yet, somehow, in this visible farewell
To the crude symbols of a simpler creed,
I find a pain that had not parallel
When passed the faith itself, — we give small heed
To incorporeal truth, let slack or swell;
But truth made tangible, is truth indeed.
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