By Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink

Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;

Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink

And rise and sink and rise and sink again; 

Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath, 

Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone; 

Yet many a man is making friends with death 

Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.

It well may be that in a difficult hour,

Pinned down by need and moaning for release, Or 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.

(Disponível em https://www.poemhunter.com/. Acessado em 28/05/2018.)

De acordo com o poema,