Dorothy Parker

Garden-Spot

God’s acre was her garden-spot, she said;
 She sat there often, of the Summer days,
Little and slim and sweet, among the dead,
 Her hair a fable in the leveled rays.
 
She turned the fading wreath, the rusted cross,
 And knelt to coax about the wiry stem.
I see her gentle fingers on the moss
 Now it is anguish to remember them.
 
And once I saw her weeping, when she rose
 And walked a way and turned to look around–
The quick and envious tears of one that knows
 She shall not lie in consecrated ground.
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