Sanctuary
My land is bar of chattering folk;
The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet's the air with curly smoke
From all my burning bridges.
Autumn Valentine
In May my heart was breaking -
Oh, wide the wound and deep!
And bitter it beat at waking,
And sore it split in sleep.
And when it came November,
I sought my heart and sighed,
"Poor thing do you remember?"
"What heart was that?" it cried.
I love Dorothy Parker
