Poem by Dorothy Parker

The White Lady

I cannot rest, I cannot rest
  In strait 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 drowsy dead!

1. Portrait of the Artist
2. Chant for Dark Hours
3. Unfortunate Coincidence
4. Inventory
5. They Part

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