Yes, my love, I think about you
In the morning's roseate flush;
Heavy hang the clouds, without you,
Sullen seems the dawning's blush.
In the slender, graceful grasses,
Silver-tipped with sparkling dew,
In the woodland's shadowy masses.
All that I can see is you.
When the noon-day sun is burning,
Hot the scented air, and clear,
Then to you my thoughts are turning,
And I would that you were here.
Then I dream that, happy vagrants,
We are wandering hand in hand
Through the lanes of light and fragrance
Into Simmer's fairyland.
When the weary sun is sinking,
And the blossoms close, in rest,
Then of you, my love, I'm thinking,
As I watch the brilliant west.
When the little stars show faintly
In the Maxfield Parrish sky,
When the moon gleams, cold and saintly,
Then to you my fancies fly.
When the frightened owls are calling,
And the sombre midnight reigns,
Thick and fast the shades come crawling,
Like the thoughts of fevered brains,
When life trembles at the brink of
Death's unfathomable deep,
You're the last thing that I think of--
Goodness knows, I need some sleep.
by Dorothy Parker
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