Dorothy Parker

Then on the world I may blazon my mark; and what if I don't, and what if I do?

My own dear love, he is all my dreams,— And I wish he were in Asia.

This is what I know: Lovers' oaths are thin as rain; Love's a harbinger of pain—Would it were not so! Ever is my heart a-thirst, ever is my love accurst; He is neither last nor first—

I'd like to view the reeling years through unastonished eyes, and dip my finger-tips in tears, and give my smiles for sighs

He must not hear nor see, nor could he forgive that Sorrow still visits me each day I live

It is but cowardice to pretend

It is but cowardice to pretend

You will go faltering after the bright, imperious line, and split your throat on laughter, and burn your eyes with brine.

None walks slow, for the love that's through,— I might mention, my recent dear, I've reverted to normal, too

This, a solo of sapience, this, a chantey of sophistry, this, the sum of experiments,— I loved them until they loved me

Then on the world I may blazon my mark; and what if I don't, and what if I do?

Devil-gotten sinners, throwing back their heads; fiddling for their dinners, kissing for their beds

Go and bless your star above, thus are you, and thus is Love

None walks slow, for the love that's through,— I might mention, my recent dear, I've reverted to normal, too

I shall tread, another year, ways I walked with Grief, Past the dry, ungarnered ear and the brittle leaf

Tender though the love he bore, you had loved a little more....

Now what should I do in this place, but sit and count the chimes, and splash cold water on my face, and spoil a page with rhymes?

Kinder the busy worms than ever love; It will be peace to lie there, empty-eyed

Who flings me silly talk of May shall meet a bitter soul; For June was nearly spent away before my heart was whole.

This, a solo of sapience, this, a chantey of sophistry, this, the sum of experiments,— I loved them until they loved me

Things I may not know nor tell wait, where older waters swell

Devil-gotten sinners, throwing back their heads; fiddling for their dinners, kissing for their beds

Four be the things I'd been better without: love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

If your dreams were thread to weave, he will pluck them from his sleeve

My own dear love, he is all my world—and I wish I'd never met him.

You will be frail and musty with peering, furtive head... Whilst I am young and lusty, among the roaring dead.

If I seek a lovelier part, where I travel goes my heart

Then on the world I may blazon my mark; and what if I don't, and what if I do?

I sit and say, the world is so.

If I seek a lovelier part, where I travel goes my heart