Poetry Revisited: Temps Perdu

(1931)

I never may turn the loop of a road 

Where sudden, ahead, the sea is Iying, 

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 furtherest day- 

What is it, what is it, I almost remember?

                                            Dorothy Parker
                                             (1893 - 1967)