I only know that summer sang in me

I have spent the last two weeks reconnecting with Emily, and it has been really nice--discussing our similar love for exotic, delicious foods; laughing about our escapades in Southeast Asia; comparing what we learned in China and Vietnam now that we've had some time to digest; and spontaneously donning a whole lot o’ spandex for The BANG, like only we would. Above all else, it was really nice to celebrate Chinese New Year/Vietnamese Tet with the same person I celebrated it with last year, even if there is snow on the ground this time around.

I would like to dedicate this week's poem to me & Em, because I like its earnest spunk and I know she will too. I'm continuing with my February trend of love-themed posts--had you noticed?--but with a slight change of pace. In honor of silly St. Valentine, here is a coquettish little sonnet from saintly Edna Millay. The poem's humor comes from the juxtaposition between its traditional structure, natural imagery, and its subject matter, which takes on a decidedly modern twist. It's a nice break from bold declarations of love, insipid cupid, and last weekend's chalky candy hearts, isn't it?

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed, and Where, and Why (Sonnet XLIII)

--Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply,

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:

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.