When we are old and these rejoicing veins 
Are frosty channels to a muted stream, 
And out of all our burning their remains 
No feeblest spark to fire us, even in dream, 
This be our solace: that it was not said 
When we were young and warm and in our prime, 
Upon our couch we lay as lie the dead, 
Sleeping away the unreturning time. 
O sweet, O heavy-lidded, O my love, 
When morning strikes her spear upon the land, 
And we must rise and arm us and reprove 
The insolent daylight with a steady hand, 
Be not discountenanced if the knowing know 
We rose from rapture but an hour ago. 

Edna St. Vincent Millay
From Fatal Interview