Bluebeard
This door you might not open, and you did;
So enter now, and see for what slight thing
You are betrayed.
.
.
Here is no treasure hid,
No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain
For greed like yours, no writhings of distress,
But only what you see.
.
.
Look yet again—
An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alone out of my life I kept
Unto myself, lest any know me quite;
And you did so profane me when you crept
Unto the threshold of this room to-night
That I must never more behold your face.
This now is yours.
I seek another place.
Poem by
Edna St Vincent Millay
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