Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?
(from Selected Poems by Edna St. Vincent Millay, The Millay Society, 1922, 1950)
That is so me!
Interestingly, it is so not Edna, whose friends called her Vincent. From everything I've read, she was quite the Bohemian. (If she went to bed at eight, I suspect she either wasn't alone or had a cold.) Unlike Emily Dickinson who simply defines life for me, Edna rarely gets it right from my perspective. But this time she did and I love her for it!
Isn't it marvelous that a poet can say in 28 words what a novelist can't seem to nail in 78,000?