Love is not all: It is not meat nor drinkNor slumber nor a roof against the rain, Nor yet a floating spar to men that sinkand rise and sink and rise and sink again. Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breathNor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; Yet many a man is making friends with deatheven as I speak, for lack of love alone. It well may be that in a difficult hour, pinned down by need and moaning for releaseor nagged by want past resolution's power,I might be driven to sell your love for peace, Or trade the memory of this night for food. It may well be. I do not think I would.
Edna St. Vincent Millay