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I must not die of pity; I must live; Grow strong. not sicken; eat, digest my food, That it may build me, and in doing good To blood and bone, broaden the sensitive Fastidious pale perception: we contrive Lean comfort for the starving, who intrude Upon them with our pots of pity; brewed From stronger meat must be the broth we give. Blue, bright September day, with here and there On the green hills a maple turning red, And white clouds racing in the windy air!- If I would help the weak, I must be fed In wit and purpose, pour away despair And rinse the cup, eat happiness like bread. - Edna St. Vincent Millay

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