Dorothy Parker

(22 August 1893 - 7 June 1967 / Long Branch / New Jersey)

The Willow


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.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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