A wound that never will heal . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay (from her book The Harp-Weaver) stands as a testament to the enduring power of grief and the profound loss that can accompany the end of a love.

 

 

Here Is A Wound That Never Will Heal, I Know

 

Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow
Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath
Its friendly weathers down, far Underneath
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.
That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain.

 

Analysis (ai): This poem explores the enduring pain of a lost love. Unlike the healing wounds of physical loss, the emotional scars linger indefinitely. The poet employs the metaphor of a barren acre, where no amount of time or nurturing can heal the devastated landscape.

The poem's imagery is stark and unforgiving. The loss of love is equated to the destruction of nature, as April and August, symbols of life and growth, are shattered and leveled. In contrast to the brevity of physical pain, the pain of a lost dream is an eternal torment, an unbearable thrust between the ribs.