On sweet young earth where the myrtle presses,
Long we lay, when the May was new;
The willow was winding the moon in her tresses,
The bud of the rose was told with dew.
And now on the brittle ground I’m lying,
Screaming to die with the dead year’s dead;
The stem of the rose is black and drying,
The willow is tossing the wind from her head.
(Dorothy Parker)
More Poetry from Dorothy Parker:
- Star Light, Star Bright (Dorothy Parker Poems)
- Ballade Of A Talked-Off Ear (Dorothy Parker Poems)
- Story Of Mrs. W- (Dorothy Parker Poems)
- Star Light, Star Bright (Dorothy Parker Poems)
- Pictures In The Smoke (Dorothy Parker Poems)
- Résumé (Dorothy Parker Poems)