After all, my erstwhile dear, My no longer cherished, Need we say it was not love, Just because it perished? - Edna St. Vincent Millay

I will be the gladdest thing
Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
And then start down!

Please give me some good advice in your next letter. I promise not to follow it. (in a letter written while she was in college)

Death devours all lovely things:
Lesbia with her sparrow
Shares the darkness - presently
Every bed is narrow.

Unremembered as old rain
Dries the sheer libation;
And the little petulant hand
Is an annotation.

After all, my erstwhile dear,
My no longer cherished,
Need we say it was not love,
Just because it perished? — Edna St. Vincent Millay, “Passer Mortuus Est,” Second April. (New York: Mitchell Kennerley, 1921)