Edna St. Vincent Millay

AM I kin to Sorrow,

That so oft

Falls the knocker of my door—

Neither loud nor soft,

But as long accustomed,

Under Sorrow’s hand?

Marigolds around the step

And rosemary stand,

And then comes Sorrow—

And what does Sorrow care

For the rosemary

Or the marigolds there?

Am I kin to Sorrow?

Are we kin?

That so oft upon my door—

Oh, come in!