Poems by Dorothy ParkerOh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,
And drink your rushing words with eager lips,
A dream lies dead here. May you softly go
Before this place, and turn away your eyes,
I think that I shall never know
Why I am thus, and I am so.
Around me, other girls inspire
In men the rush and roar of fire,
The Lives and Times of John Keats,
Percy Bysshe Shelley, and
George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron
Byron and Shelley and Keats
Because my love is quick to come and go-
A little here, and then a little there-
What use are any words of mine to swear
Once, when I was young and true,
Someone left me sad-
Broke my brittle heart in two;
And that is very bad.
In April, in April,
My one love came along,
And I ran the slope of my high hill
To follow a thread of song.
Oh, mercifullest one of all,
Oh, generous as dear,
None lived so lowly, none so small,
Thou couldst withhold thy tear:
When I am old, and comforted,
And done with this desire,
With Memory to share my bed
And Peace to share my fire,
Although I work, and seldom cease,
At Dumas pere and Dumas fils,
Alas, I cannot make me care
For Dumas fils and Dumas pere.
This, no song of an ingénue,
This, no ballad of innocence;
This, the rhyme of a lady who
Followed ever her natural bents.
There's little to have but the things I had,
There's little to bear but the things I bore.
Daily I listen to wonder and woe,
Nightly I hearken to knave or to ace,
Telling me stories of lava and snow,
Love is sharper than stones or sticks;
Lone as the sea, and deeper blue;
Loud in the night as a clock that ticks;
Authors and actors and artists and such
Never know nothing, and never know much.
The days will rally, wreathing
Their crazy tarantelle;
And you must go on breathing,
But I'll be safe in hell.
Little things that no one needs --
Little things to joke about --
Little landscapes, done in beads.
Little morals, woven out,
I think, no matter where you stray,
That I shall go with you a way.
Though you may wander sweeter lands,
Some men, some men
Cannot pass a
Book shop.
(Lady, make your mind up, and wait your life away.)
Some men, some men
Who call him spurious and shoddy
Shall do it o'er my lifeless body.
I heartily invite such birds
I never see that prettiest thing-
A cherry bough gone white with Spring-
But what I think, "How gay 'twould be
There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
They hurried here, as soon as you had died,
Their faces damp with haste and sympathy,
How shall I wail, that wasn't meant for weeping?
Love has run and left me, oh, what then?
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Buried all of his libretti,
Thought the matter over - then
Went and dug them up again.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Buried all of his libretti,
Thought the matter over - then
Went and dug them up again.
My answers are inadequate
To those demanding day and date
And ever set a tiny shock
Through strangers asking what's o'clock;
Oh, is it, then, Utopian
To hope that I may meet a man
Who'll not relate, in accents suave,
The tales of girls he used to have?
If I were mild, and I were sweet,
And laid my heart before your feet,
And took my dearest thoughts to you,
Were you to cross the world, my dear,
To work or love or fight,
I could be calm and wistful here,
And close my eyes at night.
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,
All her hours were yellow sands,
Blown in foolish whorls and tassels;
Slipping warmly through her hands;
Some men break your heart in two,
Some men fawn and flatter,
Some men never look at you;
And that cleans up the matter.
Oh, there once was a lady, and so I've been told,
Whose lover grew weary, whose lover grew cold.
This level reach of blue is not my sea;
Here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun,
Whose quiet ripples meet obediently
Travel, trouble, music, art,
A kiss, a frock, a rhyme-
I never said they feed my heart,
But still they pass my time.
Say my love is easy had,
Say I'm bitten raw with pride,
Say I am too often sad-
Still behold me at your side.
Now it's over, and now it's done;
Why does everything look the same?
Just as bright, the unheeding sun, --
Never love a simple lad,
Guard against a wise,
Shun a timid youth and sad,
Hide from haunted eyes.
Unto seventy years and seven,
Hide your double birthright well-
You, that are the brat of Heaven
And the pampered heir to Hell.
And let her loves, when she is dead,
Write this above her bones:
"No more she lives to give us bread
Lady, if you'd slumber sound,
Keep your eyes upon the ground.
If you'd toss and turn at night,
... So, praise the gods, Catullus is away!
And let me tend you this advice, my dear:
Take any lover that you will, or may,
God's acre was her garden-spot, she said;
She sat there often, of the Summer days,
Little and slim and sweet, among the dead,
When I admit neglect of Gissing,
They say I don't know what I'm missing.
Until their arguments are subtler,
What time the gifted lady took
Away from paper, pen, and book,
She spent in amorous dalliance
The day that I was christened-
It's a hundred years, and more!-
A hag came and listened
At the white church door,
Oh, seek, my love, your newer way;
I'll not be left in sorrow.
So long as I have yesterday,
Go take your damned tomorrow!
A nobler king had never breath-
I say it now, and said it then.
Who weds with such is wed till death
The pure and worthy Mrs. Stowe
Is one we all are proud to know
As mother, wife, and authoress-
Oh, when I flung my heart away,
The year was at its fall.
I saw my dear, the other day,
Beside a flowering wall;
Half across the world from me
Lie the lands I'll never see-
I, whose longing lives and dies
Where a ship has sailed away;
I know I have been happiest at your side;
But what is done, is done, and all's to be.
And small the good, to linger dolefully-
I shall come back without fanfaronade
Of wailing wind and graveyard panoply;
But, trembling, slip from cool Eternity-
And if my heart be scarred and burned,
The safer, I, for all I learned;
The calmer, I, to see it true
In youth, it was a way I had
To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
To suit his theories.
Daily dawns another day;
I must up, to make my way.
Though I dress and drink and eat,
Move my fingers and my feet,
Her mind lives in a quiet room,
A narrow room, and tall,
With pretty lamps to quench the gloom
And mottoes on the wall.
The ladies men admire, I've heard,
Would shudder at a wicked word.
Their candle gives a single light;
Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.
Four be the things I?d been better without:
So delicate my hands, and long,
They might have been my pride.
And there were those to make them song
Now this must be the sweetest place
From here to heaven's end;
The field is white and flowering lace,
When I was bold, when I was bold-
And that's a hundred years!-
Oh, never I thought my breast could hold
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,
Roses, rooted warm in earth,
Bud in rhyme, another age;
Lilies know a ghostly birth
Strewn along a patterned page;
When you are gone, there is nor bloom nor leaf,
Nor singing sea at night, nor silver birds;
My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
Sleep, pretty lady, the night is enfolding you;
Drift, and so lightly, on crystalline streams.
They hail you as their morning star
Because you are the way you are.
If you return the sentiment,
The stars are soft as flowers, and as near;
The hills are webs of shadow, slowly spun;
Let another cross his way-
She's the one will do the weeping!
Little need I fear he'll stray
Since I have his heart in keeping-
Then let them point my every tear,
And let them mock and moan;
Another week, another year,
And I'll be with my own
They say of me, and so they should,
It's doubtful if I come to good.
I see acquaintances and friends
Accumulating dividends,
Men seldom make passes
At girls who wear glasses.
So let me have the rouge again,
And comb my hair the curly way.
The poor young men, the dear young men
Always I knew that it could not last
(Gathering clouds, and the snowflakes flying),
Now it is part of the golden past
Little white love, your way you've taken;
Now I am left alone, alone.
Little white love, my heart's forsaken.
If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
If she had been beautiful, even,
Or wiser than women about her,
Or had moved with a certain defiance;
Why is it, when I am in Rome,
I'd give an eye to be at home,
But when on native earth I be,
My soul is sick for Italy?
"Then we will have tonight!" we said.
"Tomorrow- may we not be dead?"
The morrow touched our eyes, and found
A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
The bird that feeds from off my palm
Is sleek, affectionate, and calm,
But double, to me, is worth the thrush
If, with the literate, I am
Impelled to try an epigram,
I never seek to take the credit;
We all assume that Oscar said it.
Oh, ponder, friend, the porcupine;
Refresh your recollection,
And sit a moment, to define
His means of self-protection.
Whose love is given over-well
Shall look on Helen's face in hell,
Whilst those whose love is thin and wise
I shall tread, another year,
Ways I walked with Grief,
Past the dry, ungarnered ear
And the brittle leaf.
Leave me to my lonely pillow.
Go, and take your silly posies
Who has vowed to wear the willow
In the pathway of the sun,
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
If I should labor through daylight and dark,
Consecrate, valorous, serious, true,
Then on the world I may blazon my mark;
Secrets, you said, would hold us two apart;
You'd have me know of you your least transgression,
Oh, lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rankles,
And bar the window passing well,
And gyve my wrists and ankles.
Hope it was that tutored me,
And Love that taught me more;
And now I learn at Sorrow's knee
The self-same lore.
I'm sick of embarking in dories
Upon an emotional sea.
I'm wearied of playing Dolores
(A role never written for me).
We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.
Chloe's hair, no doubt, was brighter;
Lydia's mouth more sweetly sad;
Hebe's arms were rather whiter;
Tonight my love is sleeping cold
Where none may see and none shall pass.
The daisies quicken in the mold,
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
Accursed from their birth they be
Who seek to find monogamy,
Pursuing it from bed to bed-
I think they would be better dead.
If wild my breast and sore my pride,
I bask in dreams of suicide;
If cool my heart and high my head,
[and scarcely worth the trouble, at that]
The same to me are somber days and gay.
She's passing fair; but so demure is she,
So quiet is her gown, so smooth her hair,
That few there are who note her and agree
Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
Star, that gives a gracious dole,
What am I to choose?
Oh, will it be a shriven soul,
Or little buckled shoes?
She that begs a little boon
(Heel and toe! Heel and toe!)
Little gets- and nothing, soon.
(No, no, no! No, no, no!)
My land is bare of chattering folk;
The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet's the air with curly smoke
"So surely is she mine," you say, and turn
Your quick and steady mind to harder things-
Unseemly are the open eyes
That watch the midnight sheep,
That look upon the secret skies
Nor close, abashed, in sleep;
Lady, lady, should you meet
One whose ways are all discreet,
One who murmurs that his wife
Is the lodestar of his life,
There was a rose that faded young;
I saw its shattered beauty hung
Upon a broken stem.
I heard them say, "What need to care
This is what I vow;
He shall have my heart to keep,
Sweetly will we stir and sleep,
All the years, as now.
There's a place I know where the birds swing low,
And wayward vines go roaming,
Where the lilacs nod, and a marble god
Here in my heart I am Helen;
I'm Aspasia and Hero, at least.
I'm Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael;
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-
Oh, let it be a night of lyric rain
And singing breezes, when my bell is tolled.
I have so loved the rain that I would hold
When first we saw the apple tree
The boughs were dark and straight,
But never grief to give had we,
Love has had his way with me.
This my heart is torn and maimed
Since he took his play with me.
Cruel well the bow-boy aimed,
He'd have given me rolling lands,
Houses of marble, and billowing farms,
Pearls, to trickle between my hands,
And now I have another lad!
No longer need you tell
How all my nights are slow and sad
For loving you too well.
Who was there had seen us
Wouldn't bid him run?
Heavy lay between us
All our sires had done.
There he was, a-springing
A string of shiny days we had,
A spotless sky, a yellow sun;
And neither you nor I was sad
When that was through and done.
They laid their hands upon my head,
They stroked my cheek and brow;
And time could heal a hurt, they said,
Drink and dance and laugh and lie,
Love, the reeling midnight through,
For tomorrow we shall die!
(But, alas, we never do.)
I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend,
Of worry and strain and doubt;
Before we begin, let us view the end,
By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying -
For one, the amaryllis and the rose;
The poppy, sweet as never lilies are;
The ripen'd vine, that beckons as it blows;
Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
Dear dead Victoria
Rotted cosily;
In excelsis gloria,
And R. I. P.
And her shroud was buttoned neat,
Love has gone a-rocketing.
That is not the worst;
I could do without the thing,
And not be the first.
Upon the work of Walter Landor
I am unfit to write with candor.
If you can read it, well and good;
This I say, and this I know:
Love has seen the last of me.
Love's a trodden lane to woe,
Love's a path to misery.
Helen of Troy had a wandering glance;
Sappho's restriction was only the sky;
Ninon was ever the chatter of France;
