Tell me tales of a lilied pool
Asleep beneath the sun.
Tell me of woodlands deep and cool,
When chuckling satyrs run.
Tell me, in light and tinkling words,
Of rippling lilting streams.
Tell me of radiant-breasted birds,
Who sing their amorous dreams.
Tell of the doomed butterfly
That flings his hour away.
Fated to live and love and die
Before the death of day.
Tell me tales of the moon-pale sprites
Whose beauty none may know.
Tell me of secret, silver nights
When great red stars are low.
Tell of the virgin Spring, the fair,
Who roams the circling years.
Rain-drops strung in her fragrant hair,
Her eyes a-mist with tears.
Tell me of elves, who leap to kiss,
Who trip the velvet sward.
Tell me stories of things like this,
And, boy, will I be bored!
by Dorothy Parker
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