Она боялась: он в ночи умрёт.

Отделаться от мысли не могла,

Что, начиная меркнуть, небосвод

Высвечивал берёзы добела,

Металась, страх не в силах побороть

По дому с лампой; утром тявкал пёс,

Шуршала мышь, но страх так въелся в плоть,

Что облегчения рассвет не нёс.

Немного легче становилось днём,

И глупостью порыв казался ей

Уговорить на несколько ночей

Соседку в доме с ней побыть вдвоём,

Свой чай пила, но для кого тогда

Ночь напролёт кипела в чайнике вода…

Sonnet ХIV by Edna St. Vincent Millay

She had a horror he would die at night.
And sometimes when the light began to fade
She could not keep from noticing how white
The birches looked — and then she would be afraid,
Even with a lamp, to go about the house
And lock the windows; and as night wore on
Toward morning, if a dog howled, or a mouse
Squeaked in the floor, long after it was gone
Her flesh would sit awry on her. By day
She would forget somewhat, and it would seem
A silly thing to go with just this dream
And get a neighbor to come at night and stay.
But it would strike her sometimes, making tea:
She had kept that kettle boiling all night long, for company.

Selected poems of Edna St. Vincent Millay, 2016, Yale University Press. Edited by Timothy F.Jackson, page 88.