Witch-Wife

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun 'tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Comments (3)

A marvelous actual poem
Ah the woman who will never wholly belong to one man! Now I know why I've so often been called a witch! ! ! !
I love this one. It is, to me, a poem from a man's point expressing the knowledge that a woman may resign to his ways, and be a good wife, but she is too much herself inwardly to ever belong to him or anyone else. She is, through and through, herself.