Dorothy Parker

The White Lady

I cannot rest, I cannot rest
 In straight and shiny wood,
My woven hands upon my breast—
 The dead are all so good!
 
The earth is cool across their eyes;
 They lie there quietly.
But I am neither old nor wise;
 They do not welcome me.
 
Where never I walked alone before,
 I wander in the weeds;
And people scream and bar the door,
 And rattle at their beads.
 
We cannot rest, we never rest
 Within a narrow bed
Who still must love the living best—
 Who hate the pompous dead!
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