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I never may turn the loop of a road Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load- My heart, that a second before was flying.
I never behold the quivering rain- And sweeter the rain than a lover to me-But my heart is wild in my breast with pain; My heart, that was tapping contentedly.
There's never a rose spreads new at my door Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at
But I know I have known its beauty before, And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.
The look of a laurel tree birthed for May Or a sycamore bared for a new
Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day- What is it, what is it,
I almost remember?
Dorothy Parker
Dorothy Parker (née Rothschild; August 22, 1893 – June 7, 1967) was an American poet, writer, critic, and satirist based in New York; she was be
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