The White Lady

by Dorothy Parker

I cannot rest, I cannot rest

In straight and shiny wood,

My woven hands upon my breast--

The dead are all so good!

The earth is cool across their eyes;

They lie there quietly.

But I am neither old nor wise;

They do not welcome me.

Where never I walked alone before,

I wander in the weeds;

And people scream and bar the door,

And rattle at their beads.

We cannot rest, we never rest

Within a narrow bed

Who still must love the living best--

Who hate the pompous dead!

About The Editorial Staff