Say what you will, and scratch my heart to find  
The roots of last year’s roses in my breast;  
I am as surely riper in my mind  
As if the fruit stood in the stalls confessed.  
Laugh at the unshed leaf, say what you will,  
Call me in all things what I was before,  
A flutterer in the wind, a woman still;  
I tell you I am what I was and more. 

My branches weigh me down, frost cleans the air.  
My sky is black with small birds bearing south;  
Say what you will, confuse me with fine care,  
Put by my word as but an April truth,—  
Autumn is no less on me that a rose  
Hugs the brown bough and sighs before it goes.

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950) was an American lyrical poet and playwright.

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