ROSEMARY [1]
Ah, no, I dare not lose myself in dreams
Of that dead day we ne'er shall know again
So pitifully brief a while it seems,
So sharp the thought of you, as you were then.
The poignant memories of little things--
A flower in your coat, a frock I wore;
The wistful autumns, and the troubling springs--
I dare not let them come to me once more.
The tender gloamings, when we two would stray
Where locusts hung their frothy blooms above;
The violets--like my eyes, you used to say;
The rustic bridge, where first you spoke of love;
The words we whispered, while the summer breeze
Fluttered the grasses with its scented breath;
Ah, no, I dare not summon thoughts like these;
I'm so afraid I'd laugh myself to death.
By Dorothy Parker
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