by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I shall die, but that is all I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba, business in the Balkans, many calls
to make in the morning.
But I will not hold the bridle while he cinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself: I will not give him a leg up.
Though he flick my shoulders with his whip, I will not tell him which way
the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where the black boy hides
in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all I shall do for Death; I am not on his
payroll.
I will not tell him the whereabouts of my friends nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much, I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living, that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city are safe with me; never
through me
Shall you be overcome.