The Willow Poem by Dorothy Parker

The Willow

Rating: 2.6


On sweet young earth where the myrtle presses,
Long we lay, when the May was new;
The willow was winding the moon in her tresses,
The bud of the rose was told with dew.

And now on the brittle ground I'm lying,
Screaming to die with the dead year's dead;
The stem of the rose is black and drying,
The willow is tossing the wind from her head.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
READ THIS POEM IN OTHER LANGUAGES
Dorothy Parker

Dorothy Parker

Long Branch / New Jersey
Close
Error Success