It isn't fair, to me, when you're away.
In vain the clouds their brightest hues display.
Sweet Summer dons in vain her gladdest guise--
The vision falls but coldly on my eyes;
The sky seems draped in melancholy gray.
Though never bloomed the roses half so gay,
Though never half so radiant shone that day,
This loveliness my stubborn heart denies;
It isn't fair.
And do you, also, sing a minor lay?
Do you to bitter yearnings fall a prey?
"Well no," frank Echo honestly replies,
"In fact, it is distinctly otherwise."
And that, my dear, is why again I say
It isn't fair.
by Dorothy Parker
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