Dorothy Parker (22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967 / Long Branch / New Jersey)
Sonnet On An Alpine Night
My hand, a little raised, might press a star-
Where I may look, the frosted peaks are spun,
So shaped before Olympus was begun,
Spanned each to each, now, by a silver bar.
Thus to face Beauty have I traveled far,
But now, as if around my heart were run
Hard, lacing fingers, so I stand undone.
Of all my tears, the bitterest these are.
Who humbly followed Beauty all her ways,
Begging the brambles that her robe had passed,
Crying her name in corridors of stone,
That day shall know his weariedest of days -
When Beauty, still and suppliant at last,
Does not suffice him, once they are alone.
Comments about this poem (Sonnet On An Alpine Night by Dorothy Parker )
People who read Dorothy Parker also read
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings