Symptom Recital

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.

I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the gentlest joke.

I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.

I am not sick, I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore;
I do not like me any more.

I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men....
I'm due to fall in love again.


Finis

Now it's over, and now it's done; 
Why does everything look the same? 
Just as bright, the unheeding sun, -- 
Can't it see that the parting came? 
People hurry and work and swear, 
Laugh and grumble and die and wed, 
Ponder what they will eat and wear, -- 
Don't they know that our love is dead? 

Just as busy, the crowded street; 
Cars and wagons go rolling on, 
Children chuckle, and lovers meet, -- 
Don't they know that our love is gone? 
No one pauses to pay a tear; 
None walks slow, for the love that's through, -- 
I might mention, my recent dear, 
I've reverted to normal, too. 



Love Song

My own dear love, he is strong and bold 
And he cares not what comes after. 
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold, 
And his eyes are lit with laughter. 

He is jubilant as a flag unfurled -- 
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him. 
My own dear love, he is all my world, -- 
And I wish I'd never met him. 

My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet, 
And a wild young wood-thing bore him! 
The ways are fair to his roaming feet, 
And the skies are sunlit for him. 

As sharply sweet to my heart he seems 
As the fragrance of acacia. 
My own dear love, he is all my dreams, -- 
And I wish he were in Asia. 

My love runs by like a day in June, 
And he makes no friends of sorrows. 
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon 
In the pathway of the morrows. 

He'll live his days where the sunbeams start, 
Nor could storm or wind uproot him. 
My own dear love, he is all my heart, -- 
And I wish somebody'd shoot him. 

from Enough Rope (1926)