Dorothy Parker

There's a place I know where the birds swing low, And wayward vines go roaming, Where the lilacs nod, and a marble god Is pale, in scented gloaming. And at sunset there comes a lady fair Whose eyes are deep with yearning. By an old, old gate does the lady wait Her own true love's returning. But the days go by, and the lilacs die, And trembling birds seek cover; Yet the lady stands, with her long white hands Held out to greet her lover. And it's there she'll stay till the shadowy day A monument they grave her. She will always wait by the same old gate, — The gate her true love gave her.

The same to me are sombre days and gay. Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright, Because my dearest love is gone away Within my heart is melancholy night. My heart beats low in loneliness, despite That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway. In cerements my spirit is bedight; The same to me are sombre days and gay. Though breezes in the rippling grasses play, And waves dash high and far in glorious might, I thrill no longer to the sparkling day, Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright. Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight; As well might Heaven's blue be sullen gray; My soul discerns no beauty in their sight Because my dearest love is gone away. Let roses fling afar their crimson spray, And virgin daisies splash the fields with white, Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may, Within my heart is melancholy night. And this, oh love, my pitiable plight Whenever from my circling arms you stray; This little world of mine has lost its light ... I hope to God, my dear, that you can say The same to me.

Razors pain you; Rivers are damp; Acids stain you; And drugs cause cramp. Guns aren’t lawful; Nooses give; Gas smells awful; You might as well live.

I dunno yer highfalutin' words, but here's th' way it seems When I'm peekin' out th' winder o' my little House o Dreams; I've been lookin' 'roun' this big ol' world, as bizzy as a hive, An' I want t' tell ye, neighbor mine, it's good t' be alive. I've ben settin' here, a-thinkin' hard, an' say, it seems t' me That this big ol' world is jest about as good as it kin be, With its starvin' little babies, an' its battles, an' its strikes, An' its profiteers, an' hold-up men—th' dawggone little tykes! An' its hungry men that fought fer us, that nobody employs. An' I think, "Why, shucks, we're jest a lot o' grown-up little boys!" An' I settle back, an' light my pipe, an' reach fer Mother's hand, An' I wouldn't swap my peace o' mind fer nothin' in the land; Fer this world uv ours, that jest was made fer folks like me an' you Is a purty good ol' place t' live—say, neighbor, ain't it true?

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, And his eyes are lit with laughter. He is jubilant as a flag unfurled— Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him. My own dear love, he is all my world,— And I wish I’d never met him. My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet, And a wild young wood-thing bore him! The ways are fair to his roaming feet, And the skies are sunlit for him. As sharply sweet to my heart he seems As the fragrance of acacia. My own dear love, he is all my dreams,— And I wish he were in Asia. My love runs by like a day in June, And he makes no friends of sorrows. He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon In the pathway of the morrows. He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start, Nor could storm or wind uproot him. My own dear love, he is all my heart,— And I wish somebody’d shoot him.

The ladies men admire, I’ve heard, Would shudder at a wicked word. Their candle gives a single light; They’d rather stay at home at night. They do not keep awake till three, Nor read erotic poetry. They never sanction the impure, Nor recognize an overture. They shrink from powders and from paints ... So far, I’ve had no complaints.

And now I have another lad! No longer need you tell How all my nights are slow and sad For loving you too well. His ways are not your wicked ways, He's not the like of you. He treads his path of reckoned days, A sober man, and true. They'll never see him in the town, Another on his knee. He'd cut his laden orchards down, If that would pleasure me. He'd give his blood to paint my lips If I should wish them red. He prays to touch my finger-tips Or stroke my prideful head. He never weaves a glinting lie, Or brags the hearts he'll keep. I have forgotten how to sigh— Remembered how to sleep. He's none to kiss away my mind— A slower way is his. Oh, Lord! On reading this, I find A silly lot he is.