Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain … Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

But, sure, the sky is big, I said;
Miles and miles above my head;

But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat — the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.

My candle burns at both ends;
It will not last the night;
But, ah, my foes, and, oh, my friends —
It gives a lovely light.

Many a bard's untimely death
Lends unto his verses breath;

Childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies.

The only people I really hate are servants. They are not really human beings at all.

It's little I know what's in my heart,
What's in my mind it's little I know,
But there's that in me must up and start,
And it's little I care where my feet go.