My garden blossoms pink and white, <br />A place of decorous murmuring, <br />Where I am safe from August night <br />And cannot feel the knife of Spring. <br /> <br />And I may walk the pretty place <br />Before the curtsying hollyhocks <br />And laundered daisies, round of face- <br />Good little girls, in party frocks. <br /> <br />My trees are amiably arrayed <br />In pattern on the dappled sky, <br />And I may sit in filtered shade <br />And watch the tidy years go by. <br /> <br />And I may amble pleasantly <br />And hear my neighbors list their bones <br />And click my tongue in sympathy, <br />And count the cracks in paving-stones. <br /> <br />My door is grave in oaken strength, <br />The cool of linen calms my bed, <br />And there at night I stretch my length <br />And envy no one but the dead.<br /><br />Dorothy Parker<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/story-of-mrs-w/
