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. do not think i would.
-edna st vincent millay