Edna St. Vincent Millay 

Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,
And drag me at your chariot till I die, —
Oh, heavy prince! O, panderer of hearts ! —
Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie
Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair,
Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr,
Who still am free, unto no querulous care
A fool, and in no temple worshiper !
I, that have bared me to your quiver’s fire,
Lifted my face into its puny rain,
Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire
As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain !
(Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,
Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave !)