MOOD
Unless I yield my love to you, you swear
In strangely distant countries you must dwell;
Denied this heart of mine, you could not bear
These dear, familiar scenes we've loved so well
To-morrows that will come, you could not face
With only pain to bear you company,
Among the whispering memories of this place,
The little, intimate things that speak of me.
Where mighty mountains rear their cruel height,
The world between us, would you dwell, apart;
Where curious peace, that comes with tropic night,
Answers the bitter question of your heart.
The lilac bush, that bends with bloom in May,
The winding path, the arbor where we sat.
These things should know you nevermore, you say--
Ah, love, if I could only count on that!
by Dorothy Parker
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