Dorothy Parker

Temps Perdu

I never may turn the loop of a road
   Where sudden, ahead, the sea is lying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load—
   My heart, that a second before was flying.
 
I never behold the quivering rain—
   And sweeter the rain than a lover to me—
But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;
   My heart, that was tapping contentedly.
 
There’s never a rose spreads new at my door
   Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night
But I know I have known its beauty before,
   And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.
 
The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
   Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furthest day—
   What is it, what is it, I almost remember?
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