A Certain Lady - Dorothy Parker

A Certain Lady

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,

And drink your rushing words with eager lips,

And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,

And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.

When you rehearse your list of loves to me,

Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.

And you laugh back, nor can you ever see

The thousand little deaths my heart has died.

And you believe, so well I know my part,

That I am gay as morning, light as snow,

And all the straining things within my heart

You'll never know.

Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,

And you bring tales of fresh adventurings, --

Of ladies delicately indiscreet,

Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.

And you are pleased with me, and strive anew

To sing me sagas of your late delights.

Thus do you want me -- marveling, gay, and true,

Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.

And when, in search of novelty, you stray,

Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go ....

And what goes on, my love, while you're away,

You'll never know।

Comment

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,

A medley of extemporanea;

And love is a thing that can never go wrong;

And I am Marie of Roumania।

Love Song

My own dear love, he is strong and bold

And he cares not what comes after.

His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,

And his eyes are lit with laughter.

He is jubilant as a flag unfurled --

Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.

My own dear love, he is all my world, --

And I wish I'd never met him.

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,

And a wild young wood-thing bore him!

The ways are fair to his roaming feet,

And the skies are sunlit for him.

As sharply sweet to my heart he seems

As the fragrance of acacia.

My own dear love, he is all my dreams, --

And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,

And he makes no friends of sorrows.

He'll tread his galloping rigadoon

In the pathway of the morrows.

He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,

Nor could storm or wind uproot him.

My own dear love, he is all my heart, --

And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

-

Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)