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Read more poems by Dorothy Parker: Dorothy Parker Poems at Poetry X.

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.

Added: 25 Nov 2001 | Last Read: 12 Sep 2026 3:50 AM | Viewed: 5122 times

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