| |
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,
Her hair a fable in the leveled rays.
She turned the fading wreath, the rusted cross,
And knelt to coax about the wiry stem.
I see her gentle fingers on the moss
Now it is anguish to remember them.
And once I saw her weeping, when she rose
And walked a way and turned to look around-
The quick and envious tears of one that knows
She shall not lie in consecrated ground.
Dorothy Parker
Read poems about / on: summer, remember, rose, hair, god
|
|
User Rating: |
|
--
/10
(0 votes) |
|
|
|
Dorothy Parker
Free
Poetry E-Book:
E-mail this poem to e friend