Sonnet XIX

If I die solvent — die, that is to say,
In full possession of my critical mind,
Not having cast, to keep the wolves at bay
In this dark wood — till all be flung behind —
Wit, courage, honor, pride, oblivion
Of the red eyeball and the yellow tooth;
Nor sweat nor howl nor break into a run
When loping Death's upon me in hot sooth;
'Twill be that in my honoured hands I bear
What's under no condition to be spilled
Till my blood spills and hardens in the air:
An earthen grail, a humble vessel filled
To its low brim with water from that brink
Where Shakespeare, Keats, Chaucer learned to drink.

(Edna St. Vincent Millay)