Dorothy Parker

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

Dorothy Parker Poems

1. Poem In The American Manner 12/1/2015
2. General Review Of The Sex Situation 6/24/2016
3. Walter Savage Landor 1/13/2003
4. Thomas Carlyle 1/13/2003
5. Temps Perdu 1/13/2003
6. Vers Demode 1/13/2003
7. Prologue To A Saga 1/3/2003
8. Of A Woman, Dead Young 1/3/2003
9. Requiescat 1/13/2003
10. Pour Prendre Conge 1/13/2003
11. The Leal 1/13/2003
12. Rondeau RedoublÉ 1/13/2003
13. Liebestod 1/13/2003
14. Iseult Of Brittany 1/13/2003
15. The Dramatists 1/13/2003
16. The Evening Primrose 1/13/2003
17. The Trifler 1/3/2003
18. Sonnet On An Alpine Night 1/13/2003
19. On Cheating The Fiddler 1/13/2003
20. Harriet Beecher Stowe 1/13/2003
21. The Gentlest Lady 1/3/2003
22. D.G. Rossetti 1/3/2003
23. Prisoner 1/13/2003
24. The Searched Soul 1/3/2003
25. Salome's Dancing-Lesson 1/3/2003
26. Testament 1/13/2003
27. Story 1/13/2003
28. George Gissing 1/13/2003
29. Roundel 1/13/2003
30. Story Of Mrs. W- 1/13/2003
31. Partial Comfort 1/3/2003
32. The Second Oldest Story 1/13/2003
33. To A Much Too Unfortunate Lady 1/13/2003
34. Parable For A Certain Virgin 1/13/2003
35. Plea 1/13/2003
36. George Sand 1/13/2003
37. Prophetic Soul 1/13/2003
38. Victoria 1/13/2003
39. The Danger Of Writing Defiant Verse 1/13/2003
40. Hearthside 1/13/2003
Best Poem of Dorothy Parker

One Perfect Rose

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.
All tenderly his messenger he chose;
Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet -
One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;
'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.'
Love long has taken for his amulet
One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet
One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
Ah no, it's always just my luck to get
One perfect rose.

Read the full of One Perfect Rose

Transition

Too long and quickly have I lived to vow
The woe that stretches me shall never wane,
Too often seen the end of endless pain
To swear that peace no more shall cool my brow.
I know, I know- again the shriveled bough
Will burgeon sweetly in the gentle rain,
And these hard lands be quivering with grain-
I tell you only: it is Winter now.

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