by Dorothy Parker

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.

What if I know, before the Summer goes

Where dwelt this bitter frenzy shall be rest?

What is it now, that June shall surely bring

New promise, with the swallow and the rose?

My heart is water, that I first must breast

The terrible, slow loveliness of Spring.