Dorothy Parker
I Shall Come Back
I shall come back without fanfaronade Of wailing wind and graveyard panoply; But, trembling, slip from cool Eternity- A mild and most bewildered little shade. I shall not make sepulchral midnight raid, But softly
Sight
Unseemly are the open eyes That watch the midnight sheep, That look upon the secret skies Nor close, abashed, in sleep; That see the dawn drag in, unbidden, To birth another day- Oh, better
Prayer For a New Mother
The things she knew, let her forget again- The voices in the sky, the fear, the cold, The gaping shepherds, and the queer old men Piling their clumsy gifts of foreign gold. Let her
Portrait of the Artist
Oh, lead me to a quiet cell Where never footfall rankles, And bar the window passing well, And gyve my wrists and ankles. Oh, wrap my eyes with linen fair, With hempen cord go
Ballade Of A Great Weariness
There’s little to have but the things I had, There’s little to bear but the things I bore. There’s nothing to carry and naught to add, And glory to Heaven, I paid the score.
Epitaph
The first time I died, I walked my ways; I followed the file of limping days. I held me tall, with my head flung up, But I dared not look on the new moon’s
To A Much Too Unfortunate Lady
He will love you presently If you be the way you be. Send your heart a-skittering. He will stoop, and lift the thing. Be your dreams as thread, to tease Into patterns he shall
Temps Perdu
I never may turn the loop of a road Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying, But my heart drags down with an ancient load- My heart, that a second before was flying. I
Light Of Love
Joy stayed with me a night Young and free and fair And in the morning light He left me there. Then Sorrow came to stay, And lay upon my breast He walked with me
Guinevere at Her Fireside
A nobler king had never breath- I say it now, and said it then. Who weds with such is wed till death And wedded stays in Heaven. Amen. (And oh, the shirts of linen-lawn,
From A Letter From Lesbia
… So, praise the gods, Catullus is away! And let me tend you this advice, my dear: Take any lover that you will, or may, Except a poet. All of them are queer. It’s
Midnight
The stars are soft as flowers, and as near; The hills are webs of shadow, slowly spun; No separate leaf or single blade is here- All blend to one. No moonbeam cuts the air;
Afternoon
When I am old, and comforted, And done with this desire, With Memory to share my bed And Peace to share my fire, I’ll comb my hair in scalloped bands Beneath my laundered cap,
Unfortunate Coincidence
By the time you swear you’re his, Shivering and sighing, And he vows his passion is Infinite, undying – Lady, make a note of this: One of you is lying.
Pour Prendre Conge
I’m sick of embarking in dories Upon an emotional sea. I’m wearied of playing Dolores (A role never written for me). I’ll never again like a cub lick My wounds while I squeal at