Saturday, June 07, 2008
I tore a few un-read poetry anthologies from my shelf this past week, to break the monotony as I review Latin and Greek during every other waking hour. Inevitably, this endeavour has entirely severed the course I set for Latin and Greek readings. Oh, well. Carthago delenda est.
From Not Much Fun: The Lost Poems of Dorothy Parker:
TO MYRTILLA, ON EASTER DAY
Myrtilla's tripping down the street,
In Easter finery.
The Easter blooms are not more sweet
And radiant-hued than she.
The rarest woodland violets were
Less fragrant than her frills,
The sunny-tinted hair of her
Would shame the daffodils.
Ah, many a heart-beat halts and skips,
And sighs pursue her way,
As down the street Myrtilla trips,
This joyous Easter Day.
Myrtilla's tripping gaily by,
In Easter garb arrayed.
Ah, would the lads as deeply sigh,
For any other maid?
The lads, they come from far and near,
When down the street she starts;
Oh, lightly step, Myrtilla dear,
Your path is strewn with hearts.
The maids are held in envy's grips,
For they are left, forlorn,
As down the street Mytrilla trips,
This glorious Easter morn.
Ah, well may echo, sweet as love,
Her laugh's delicious lilt,
For sure she knows the power of
Her Easter bonnet's tilt;
A master wrought, with tender care,
Each dainty frill and flounce;
The fragrance of her, cool and rare,
Costs thirty-five per ounce.
Parisian rouge defines her lips,
And pearls her throat bedeck-
As down the street Myrtilla trips,
I hope she breaks her neck!
THOUGHTS
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 Summer'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 thought 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.
Labels: Dorothy Parker, Greek, Latin, poetry, routine
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 5:10 PM]