by Edna St. Vincent Millay

    Strong sun， that bleach

    The curtains of my room， can you not render

    Colourless this dress I wear？——

    This violent plaid

    Of purple angers and red shames； the yellow stripe

    Of thin but valid treacheries； the flashy green of kind deeds done

    Through indolence high judgments given here in haste；

    The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste？

    No more uncoloured than unmade，

    I fear， can be this garment that I may not doff；

    Confession does not strip it off，

    To send me homeward eased and bare；

    All through the formal， unoffending evening， under the clean

    Bright hair，

    Lining the subtle gown. . .it is not seen，

    But it is there.