Witch-Wife
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

She is neither pink nor pale,
And she never will be all mine;
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,
And her mouth on a valentine.

She has more hair than she needs;
In the sun `tis a woe to me!
And her voice is a string of coloured beads,
Or steps leading into the sea.

She loves me all that she can,
And her ways to my ways resign;
But she was not made for any man,
And she never will be all mine.


I like how she is aware the woman isn't hers, yet she speaks of her as if she is. She makes the subect of the poem sound like a doll, made of this thing or that thing "not made for any man" but yet "she never will be all mine." It's short and sweet and to the point, but you can see a much longer story that may lie underneath.