The Project Gutenberg eBook ofEnough rope: poems

The Project Gutenberg eBook ofEnough rope: poemsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Enough rope: poemsAuthor: Dorothy ParkerRelease date: June 20, 2022 [eBook #68353]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Boni & Liveright, 1926Credits: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENOUGH ROPE: POEMS ***

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Enough rope: poemsAuthor: Dorothy ParkerRelease date: June 20, 2022 [eBook #68353]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Boni & Liveright, 1926Credits: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)

Title: Enough rope: poems

Author: Dorothy Parker

Release date: June 20, 2022 [eBook #68353]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Boni & Liveright, 1926

Credits: Laura Natal Rodrigues (Images generously made available by Hathi Trust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ENOUGH ROPE: POEMS ***

All Rights of Reproduction Reserved

First printing, December, 1926Second printing, January, 1927Third printing, February, 1927Fourth printing, March, 1927Fifth printing, April, 1927Sixth printing, May, 1927Seventh printing, July, 1927Eighth printing, September, 1927Ninth printing, October, 1927Tenth printing, December, 1927Eleventh printing, February, 1928Twelfth printing, April, 1928Thirteenth printing, July, 1928

The verses in this book were first printed inLife,Vanity Fair,The New Yorker, andThe New York World.

PART ONETHRENODYTHE SMALL HOURSTHE FALSE FRIENDSTHE TRIFLERA VERY SHORT SONGA WELL-WORN STORYCONVALESCENTTHE DARK GIRL'S RHYMEEPITAPHLIGHT OF LOVEWAILTHE SATIN DRESSSOMEBODY'S SONGANECDOTEBRAGGARTEPITAPH FOR A DARLING LADYTO A MUCH TOO UNFORTUNATE LADYPATHSHEARTHSIDETHE NEW LOVERAINY NIGHTFOR A SAD LADYRECURRENCESTORY OF MRS. W—THE DRAMATISTSAUGUSTTHE WHITE LADYI KNOW I HAVE BEEN HAPPIESTTESTAMENT"I SHALL COME BACK"CONDOLENCETHE IMMORTALSA PORTRAITPART TWOPORTRAIT OF THE ARTISTCHANT FOR DARK HOURSUNFORTUNATE COINCIDENCEVERSE REPORTING LATE ARRIVAL AT A CONCLUSIONINVENTORYNOW AT LIBERTYCOMMENTPLEAPATTERNDE PROFUNDISTHEY PARTBALLADE OF A GREAT WEARINESSRÉSUMÉRENUNCIATIONDAY-DREAMSTHE VETERANPROPHETIC SOULVERSE FOR A CERTAIN DOGFOLK TUNEGODSPEEDSONG OF PERFECT PROPRIETYSOCIAL NOTEONE PERFECT ROSEBALLADE AT THIRTY-FIVETHE THIN EDGESPRING SONGLOVE SONGINDIAN SUMMERPHILOSOPHYFOR AN UNKNOWN LADYTHE LEALFINISWORDS OF COMFORT TO BE SCRATCHED ON A MIRRORMENNEWS ITEMSONG OF ONE OF THE GIRLSLULLABYFAUT DE MIEUXROUNDELA CERTAIN LADYOBSERVATIONSYMPTOM RECITALFIGHTING WORDSRONDEAU REDOUBLÉAUTOBIOGRAPHYTHE CHOICEBALLADE OF BIG PLANSGENERAL REVIEW OF THE SEX SITUATIONINSCRIPTION FOR THE CEILING OF A BEDROOMPICTURES IN THE SMOKEBIOGRAPHIESNOCTURNEINTERVIEWSONG IN A MINOR KEYEXPERIENCENEITHER BLOODY NOR BOWEDTHE BURNED CHILD

Lilacs blossom just as sweetNow my heart is shattered.If I bowled it down the street,Who's to say it mattered?If there's one that rode awayWhat would I be missing?Lips that taste of tears, they say,Are the best for kissing.Eyes that watch the morning starSeem a little brighter;Arms held out to darkness areUsually whiter.Shall I bar the strolling guest,Bind my brow with willow,When, they say, the empty breastIs the softer pillow?That a heart falls tinkling down,Never think it ceases.Every likely lad in townGathers up the pieces.If there's one gone whistling byWould I let it grieve me?Let him wonder if I lie;Let him half believe me.

Eyes that watch the morning starSeem a little brighter;Arms held out to darkness areUsually whiter.Shall I bar the strolling guest,Bind my brow with willow,When, they say, the empty breastIs the softer pillow?

That a heart falls tinkling down,Never think it ceases.Every likely lad in townGathers up the pieces.If there's one gone whistling byWould I let it grieve me?Let him wonder if I lie;Let him half believe me.

No more my little song comes back;And now of nights I layMy head on down, to watch the blackAnd wait the unfailing gray.Oh, sad are winter nights, and slow;And sad's a song that's dumb;And sad it is to lie and knowAnother dawn will come.

No more my little song comes back;And now of nights I layMy head on down, to watch the blackAnd wait the unfailing gray.

Oh, sad are winter nights, and slow;And sad's a song that's dumb;And sad it is to lie and knowAnother dawn will come.

They laid their hands upon my head,They stroked my cheek and brow;And time could heal a hurt, they said,And time could dim a vow.And they were pitiful and mildWho whispered to me then,"The heart that breaks in April, child,Will mend in May again."Oh, many a mended heart they knew,So old they were, and wise.And little did they have to doTo come to me with lies!Who flings me silly talk of MayShall meet a bitter soul;For June was nearly spent awayBefore my heart was whole.

They laid their hands upon my head,They stroked my cheek and brow;And time could heal a hurt, they said,And time could dim a vow.

And they were pitiful and mildWho whispered to me then,"The heart that breaks in April, child,Will mend in May again."

Oh, many a mended heart they knew,So old they were, and wise.And little did they have to doTo come to me with lies!

Who flings me silly talk of MayShall meet a bitter soul;For June was nearly spent awayBefore my heart was whole.

Death's the lover that I'd be taking;Wild and fickle and fierce is he.Small's his care if my heart be breaking—Gay young Death would have none of me.Hear them clack of my haste to greet him!No one other my mouth had kissed.I had dressed me in silk to meet him—False young Death would not hold the tryst.Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy,Smooth and cold is the bridal bed;I must wait till he whistles for me—Proud young Death would not turn his head.I must wait till my breast is wilted,I must wait till my back is bowed,I must rock in the corner, jilted,—Death went galloping down the road.Gone's my heart with a trifling rover.Fine he was in the game he played—Kissed, and promised, and threw me over,And rode away with a prettier maid.

Death's the lover that I'd be taking;Wild and fickle and fierce is he.Small's his care if my heart be breaking—Gay young Death would have none of me.

Hear them clack of my haste to greet him!No one other my mouth had kissed.I had dressed me in silk to meet him—False young Death would not hold the tryst.

Slow's the blood that was quick and stormy,Smooth and cold is the bridal bed;I must wait till he whistles for me—Proud young Death would not turn his head.

I must wait till my breast is wilted,I must wait till my back is bowed,I must rock in the corner, jilted,—Death went galloping down the road.

Gone's my heart with a trifling rover.Fine he was in the game he played—Kissed, and promised, and threw me over,And rode away with a prettier maid.

Once when I was young and true,Someone left me sad—Broke my brittle heart in two;And that is very bad.Love is for unlucky folk,Love is but a curse.Once there was a heart I broke;And that, I think, is worse.

Once when I was young and true,Someone left me sad—Broke my brittle heart in two;And that is very bad.

Love is for unlucky folk,Love is but a curse.Once there was a heart I broke;And that, I think, is worse.

In April, in April,My one love came along,And I ran the slope of my high hillTo follow a thread of song.His eyes were hard as porphyryWith looking on cruel lands;His voice went slipping over meLike terrible silver hands.Together we trod the secret laneAnd walked the muttering town.I wore my heart like a wet, red stainOn the breast of a velvet gown.In April, in April,My love went whistling by,And I stumbled here to my high hillAlong the way of a lie.Now what should I do in this placeBut sit and count the chimes,And splash cold water on my faceAnd spoil a page with rhymes?

In April, in April,My one love came along,And I ran the slope of my high hillTo follow a thread of song.

His eyes were hard as porphyryWith looking on cruel lands;His voice went slipping over meLike terrible silver hands.

Together we trod the secret laneAnd walked the muttering town.I wore my heart like a wet, red stainOn the breast of a velvet gown.

In April, in April,My love went whistling by,And I stumbled here to my high hillAlong the way of a lie.

Now what should I do in this placeBut sit and count the chimes,And splash cold water on my faceAnd spoil a page with rhymes?

How shall I wail, that wasn't meant for weeping?Love has run and left me, oh, what then?Dream, then, I must, who never can be sleeping;What if I should meet Love, once again?What if I met him, walking on the highway?Let him see how lightly I should care.He'd travel his way, I would follow my way;Hum a little song, and pass him there.What if at night, beneath a sky of ashes,He should seek my doorstep, pale with need?There could he lie, and dry would be my lashes;Let him stop his noise, and let me read.Oh, but I'm gay, that's better off without him;Would he'd come and see me, laughing here.Lord! Don't I know I'd have my arms about him,Crying to him, "Oh, come in, my dear!"

How shall I wail, that wasn't meant for weeping?Love has run and left me, oh, what then?Dream, then, I must, who never can be sleeping;What if I should meet Love, once again?

What if I met him, walking on the highway?Let him see how lightly I should care.He'd travel his way, I would follow my way;Hum a little song, and pass him there.

What if at night, beneath a sky of ashes,He should seek my doorstep, pale with need?There could he lie, and dry would be my lashes;Let him stop his noise, and let me read.

Oh, but I'm gay, that's better off without him;Would he'd come and see me, laughing here.Lord! Don't I know I'd have my arms about him,Crying to him, "Oh, come in, my dear!"

Who was there had seen usWouldn't bid him run?Heavy lay between usAll our sires had done.There he was, a-springingOf a pious race—Setting hags a-swingingIn a market-place;Sowing turnips overWhere the poppies lay;Looking past the clover,Adding up the hay;Shouting through the Spring song,Clumping down the sod;Toadying, in sing-song,To a crabbèd god.There I was, that came ofFolk of mud and flame—I that had my name ofThem without a name.Up and down a mountainStreeled my silly stock;Passing by a fountain,Wringing at a rock;Devil-gotten sinners,Throwing back their heads;Fiddling for their dinners,Kissing for their beds.Not a one had seen usWouldn't help him flee.Angry ran between usBlood of him and me.How shall I be matingWho have looked above—Living for a hating,Dying of a love?

Who was there had seen usWouldn't bid him run?Heavy lay between usAll our sires had done.

There he was, a-springingOf a pious race—Setting hags a-swingingIn a market-place;

Sowing turnips overWhere the poppies lay;Looking past the clover,Adding up the hay;

Shouting through the Spring song,Clumping down the sod;Toadying, in sing-song,To a crabbèd god.

There I was, that came ofFolk of mud and flame—I that had my name ofThem without a name.

Up and down a mountainStreeled my silly stock;Passing by a fountain,Wringing at a rock;

Devil-gotten sinners,Throwing back their heads;Fiddling for their dinners,Kissing for their beds.

Not a one had seen usWouldn't help him flee.Angry ran between usBlood of him and me.

How shall I be matingWho have looked above—Living for a hating,Dying of a love?

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 cup.I dared not look on the sweet young rain,And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.The next time I died, they laid me deep.They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,They weighted me down with a marble urn.And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,And watch the worms slip by, slip by.

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 cup.

I dared not look on the sweet young rain,And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.

The next time I died, they laid me deep.They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.

They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,They weighted me down with a marble urn.

And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,And watch the worms slip by, slip by.

Joy stayed with me a night—Young and free and fair—And in the morning lightHe left me there.Then Sorrow came to stay,And lay upon my breast;He walked with me in the day,And knew me best.I'll never be a bride,Nor yet celibate,So I'm living now with Pride—A cold bedmate.He must not hear nor see,Nor could he forgiveThat Sorrow still visits meEach day I live.

Joy stayed with me a night—Young and free and fair—And in the morning lightHe left me there.

Then Sorrow came to stay,And lay upon my breast;He walked with me in the day,And knew me best.

I'll never be a bride,Nor yet celibate,So I'm living now with Pride—A cold bedmate.

He must not hear nor see,Nor could he forgiveThat Sorrow still visits meEach day I live.

Love has gone a-rocketing.That is not the worst;I could do without the thing,And not be the first.Joy has gone the way it came.That is nothing new;I could get along the same,—Many people do.Dig for me the narrow bed,Now I am bereft.All my pretty hates are dead,And what have I left?

Love has gone a-rocketing.That is not the worst;I could do without the thing,And not be the first.

Joy has gone the way it came.That is nothing new;I could get along the same,—Many people do.

Dig for me the narrow bed,Now I am bereft.All my pretty hates are dead,And what have I left?

Needle, needle, dip and dart,Thrusting up and down,Where's the man could ease a heartLike a satin gown?See the stitches curve and crawlRound the cunning seams—Patterns thin and sweet and smallAs a lady's dreams.Wantons go in bright brocades;Brides in organdie;Gingham's for the plighted maid;Satin's for the free!Wool's to line a miser's chest;Crape's to calm the old;Velvet hides an empty breast;Satin's for the bold!Lawn is for a bishop's yoke;Linen's for a nun;Satin is for wiser folk—Would the dress were done!Satin glows in candle-light—Satin's for the proud!They will say who watch at night,"What a fine shroud!"

Needle, needle, dip and dart,Thrusting up and down,Where's the man could ease a heartLike a satin gown?

See the stitches curve and crawlRound the cunning seams—Patterns thin and sweet and smallAs a lady's dreams.

Wantons go in bright brocades;Brides in organdie;Gingham's for the plighted maid;Satin's for the free!

Wool's to line a miser's chest;Crape's to calm the old;Velvet hides an empty breast;Satin's for the bold!

Lawn is for a bishop's yoke;Linen's for a nun;Satin is for wiser folk—Would the dress were done!

Satin glows in candle-light—Satin's for the proud!They will say who watch at night,"What a fine shroud!"

This is what I vow;He shall have my heart to keep;Sweetly will we stir and sleep,All the years, as now.Swift the measured sands may run;Love like this is never done;He and I are welded one:This is what I vow.This is what I pray:Keep him by me tenderly;Keep him sweet in pride of me,Ever and a day;Keep me from the old distress;Let me, for our happiness,Be the one to love the less:This is what I pray.This is what I know:Lovers' oaths are thin as rain;Love's a harbinger of pain—Would it were not so!Ever is my heart a-thirst,Ever is my love accurst;He is neither last nor first—This is what I know.

This is what I pray:Keep him by me tenderly;Keep him sweet in pride of me,Ever and a day;Keep me from the old distress;Let me, for our happiness,Be the one to love the less:This is what I pray.

This is what I know:Lovers' oaths are thin as rain;Love's a harbinger of pain—Would it were not so!Ever is my heart a-thirst,Ever is my love accurst;He is neither last nor first—This is what I know.

So silent I when Love was byHe yawned, and turned away;But Sorrow clings to my apron-strings,I have so much to say.

The days will rally, wreathingTheir crazy tarantelle;And you must go on breathing,But I'll be safe in hell.Like January weather,The years will bite and smart,And pull your bones togetherTo wrap your chattering heart.The pretty stuff you're made ofWill crack and crease and dry.The thing you are afraid ofWill look from every eye.You will go faltering afterThe bright, imperious line,And split your throat on laughter,And burn your eyes with brine.You will be frail and mustyWith peering, furtive head,Whilst I am young and lustyAmong the roaring dead.

The days will rally, wreathingTheir crazy tarantelle;And you must go on breathing,But I'll be safe in hell.

Like January weather,The years will bite and smart,And pull your bones togetherTo wrap your chattering heart.

The pretty stuff you're made ofWill crack and crease and dry.The thing you are afraid ofWill look from every eye.

You will go faltering afterThe bright, imperious line,And split your throat on laughter,And burn your eyes with brine.

You will be frail and mustyWith peering, furtive head,Whilst I am young and lustyAmong the roaring dead.

All her hours were yellow sands,Blown in foolish whorls and tassels;Slipping warmly through her hands;Patted into little castles.Shiny day on shiny dayTumble in a rainbow clutter,As she flipped them all away,Sent them spinning down the gutter.Leave for her a red young rose,Go your way, and save your pity;She is happy, for she knowsThat her dust is very pretty.

All her hours were yellow sands,Blown in foolish whorls and tassels;Slipping warmly through her hands;Patted into little castles.

Shiny day on shiny dayTumble in a rainbow clutter,As she flipped them all away,Sent them spinning down the gutter.

Leave for her a red young rose,Go your way, and save your pity;She is happy, for she knowsThat her dust is very pretty.

He will love you presentlyIf you be the way you be.Send your heart a-skittering,He will stoop, and lift the thing.Be your dreams as thread, to teaseInto patterns he shall please.Let him see your passion isEver tenderer than his....Go and bless your star above,Thus are you, and thus is Love.He will leave you white with woe,If you go the way you go.If your dreams were thread to weave,He will pluck them from his sleeve.If your heart had come to rest,He will flick it from his breast.Tender though the love he bore,You had loved a little more....Lady, go and curse your star,Thus Love is, and thus you are.

He will leave you white with woe,If you go the way you go.If your dreams were thread to weave,He will pluck them from his sleeve.If your heart had come to rest,He will flick it from his breast.Tender though the love he bore,You had loved a little more....Lady, go and curse your star,Thus Love is, and thus you are.

I shall tread, another year,Ways I walked with Grief,Past the dry, ungarnered earAnd the brittle leaf.I shall stand, a year apart,Wondering, and shy,Thinking, "Here she broke her heart;Here she pled to die."I shall hear the pheasants call,And the raucous geese;Down these ways, another Fall,I shall walk with Peace.But the pretty path I trodHand-in-hand with Love,—Underfoot, the nascent sod,Brave young boughs above,And the stripes of ribbon grassBy the curling way,—I shall never dare to passTo my dying day.

I shall tread, another year,Ways I walked with Grief,Past the dry, ungarnered earAnd the brittle leaf.

I shall stand, a year apart,Wondering, and shy,Thinking, "Here she broke her heart;Here she pled to die."

I shall hear the pheasants call,And the raucous geese;Down these ways, another Fall,I shall walk with Peace.

But the pretty path I trodHand-in-hand with Love,—Underfoot, the nascent sod,Brave young boughs above,

And the stripes of ribbon grassBy the curling way,—I shall never dare to passTo my dying day.

Half across the world from meLie the lands I'll never see—I, whose longing lives and diesWhere a ship has sailed away;I, that never close my eyesBut to look upon Cathay.Things I may not know nor tellWait, where older waters swell;Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread,Winds that sighed in Homer's strings,Vibrant with the singing dead,Golden with the dust of wings.Under deeper skies than mine,Quiet valleys dip and shine.Where their tender grasses healAncient scars of trench and tombI shall never walk; nor kneelWhere the bones of poets bloom.If I seek a lovelier part,Where I travel goes my heart;Where I stray my thought must go;With me wanders my desire.Best to sit and watch the snow,Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

Half across the world from meLie the lands I'll never see—I, whose longing lives and diesWhere a ship has sailed away;I, that never close my eyesBut to look upon Cathay.

Things I may not know nor tellWait, where older waters swell;Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread,Winds that sighed in Homer's strings,Vibrant with the singing dead,Golden with the dust of wings.

Under deeper skies than mine,Quiet valleys dip and shine.Where their tender grasses healAncient scars of trench and tombI shall never walk; nor kneelWhere the bones of poets bloom.

If I seek a lovelier part,Where I travel goes my heart;Where I stray my thought must go;With me wanders my desire.Best to sit and watch the snow,Turn the lock, and poke the fire.

If it shine or if it rain,Little will I care or know.Days, like drops upon a pane,Slip, and join, and go.At my door's another lad;Here's his flower in my hair.If he see me pale and sad,Will he see me fair?I sit looking at the floor.Little will I think or sayIf he seek another door;Even if he stay.

If it shine or if it rain,Little will I care or know.Days, like drops upon a pane,Slip, and join, and go.

At my door's another lad;Here's his flower in my hair.If he see me pale and sad,Will he see me fair?

I sit looking at the floor.Little will I think or sayIf he seek another door;Even if he stay.

Ghosts of all my lovely sins,Who attend too well my pillow,Gay the wanton rain begins;Hide the limp and tearful willow,Turn aside your eyes and ears,Trail away your robes of sorrow.You shall have my further years,—You shall walk with me to-morrow.I am sister to the rain;Fey and sudden and unholy,Petulant at the windowpane,Quickly lost, remembered slowly.I have lived with shades, a shade;I am hung with graveyard flowers.Let me be to-night arrayedIn the silver of the showers.Every fragile thing shall rust;When another April passesI may be a furry dust,Sifting through the brittle grasses.All sweet sins shall be forgotWho will live to tell their siring?Hear me now, nor let me rotWistful still, and still aspiring.Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;I am frail, be you forgiving.See you not that I have needTo be living with the living?Sail, to-night, the Styx's breast;Glide among the dim processionsOf the exquisite unblest.Spirits of my shared transgressions.Roam with young Persephone,Plucking poppies for your slumber...With the morrow, there shall beOne more wraith among your number.

Ghosts of all my lovely sins,Who attend too well my pillow,Gay the wanton rain begins;Hide the limp and tearful willow,

Turn aside your eyes and ears,Trail away your robes of sorrow.You shall have my further years,—You shall walk with me to-morrow.

I am sister to the rain;Fey and sudden and unholy,Petulant at the windowpane,Quickly lost, remembered slowly.

I have lived with shades, a shade;I am hung with graveyard flowers.Let me be to-night arrayedIn the silver of the showers.

Every fragile thing shall rust;When another April passesI may be a furry dust,Sifting through the brittle grasses.

All sweet sins shall be forgotWho will live to tell their siring?Hear me now, nor let me rotWistful still, and still aspiring.

Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;I am frail, be you forgiving.See you not that I have needTo be living with the living?

Sail, to-night, the Styx's breast;Glide among the dim processionsOf the exquisite unblest.Spirits of my shared transgressions.

Roam with young Persephone,Plucking poppies for your slumber...With the morrow, there shall beOne more wraith among your number.

And let her loves, when she is dead,Write this above her bones:"No more she lives to give us breadWho asked her only stones."

We shall have our little day.Take my hand and travel stillRound and round the little way,Up and down the little hill.It is good to love again;Scan the renovated skies,Dip and drive the idling pen,Sweetly tint the paling lies.Trace the dripping, piercèd heart,Speak the fair, insistent verse,Vow to God, and slip apart,Little better, little worse.Would we need not know beforeHow shall end this prettiness;One of us must love the more,One of us shall love the less.Thus it is, and so it goes;We shall have our day, my dear.Where, unwilling, dies the roseBuds the new, another year.

We shall have our little day.Take my hand and travel stillRound and round the little way,Up and down the little hill.

It is good to love again;Scan the renovated skies,Dip and drive the idling pen,Sweetly tint the paling lies.Trace the dripping, piercèd heart,Speak the fair, insistent verse,Vow to God, and slip apart,Little better, little worse.

Would we need not know beforeHow shall end this prettiness;One of us must love the more,One of us shall love the less.

Thus it is, and so it goes;We shall have our day, my dear.Where, unwilling, dies the roseBuds the new, another year.

My garden blossoms pink and white,A place of decorous murmuringWhere I am safe from August nightAnd cannot feel the knife of spring.And I may walk the pretty placeBefore the curtsying hollyhocksAnd laundered daisies, round of face—Good little girls, in party frocks.My trees are amiably arrayedIn pattern on the dappled sky,And I may sit in filtered shadeAnd watch the tidy years go by.And I may amble pleasantlyAnd hear my neighbors list their bonesAnd click my tongue in sympathy,And count the cracks in paving stones.My door is grave in oaken strength,The cool of linen calms my bed,And there at night I stretch my lengthAnd envy no one but the dead.

My garden blossoms pink and white,A place of decorous murmuringWhere I am safe from August nightAnd cannot feel the knife of spring.

And I may walk the pretty placeBefore the curtsying hollyhocksAnd laundered daisies, round of face—Good little girls, in party frocks.

My trees are amiably arrayedIn pattern on the dappled sky,And I may sit in filtered shadeAnd watch the tidy years go by.

And I may amble pleasantlyAnd hear my neighbors list their bonesAnd click my tongue in sympathy,And count the cracks in paving stones.

My door is grave in oaken strength,The cool of linen calms my bed,And there at night I stretch my lengthAnd envy no one but the dead.

A string of shiny days we had,A spotless sky, a yellow sun;And neither you nor I was sadWhen that was through and done.But when, one day, a boy comes byAnd pleads me with your happiest vow,"There was a lad I knew—" I'll sigh;"I do not know him now."And when another girl shall passAnd speak a little name I said,Then you will say "There was a lass—I wonder is she dead."And each of us will sigh, and startA-talking of a faded year,And lay a hand above a heart,And dry a pretty tear.

A string of shiny days we had,A spotless sky, a yellow sun;And neither you nor I was sadWhen that was through and done.

But when, one day, a boy comes byAnd pleads me with your happiest vow,"There was a lad I knew—" I'll sigh;"I do not know him now."

And when another girl shall passAnd speak a little name I said,Then you will say "There was a lass—I wonder is she dead."

And each of us will sigh, and startA-talking of a faded year,And lay a hand above a heart,And dry a pretty tear.

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