The Small Hours

No more my little song comes back;
And now of nights I lay
My head on down, to watch the black
And wait the unfailing gray.

Oh, sad are winter nights, and slow;
And sad's a song that's dumb;
And sad it is to lie and know
Another dawn will come.

by Dorothy Parker

Comments (1)

Her wit, her sardonic bite, came from a very dark place inside her. I wonder if it was clinical depression or just a heart that sped from one disaster straight into the arms of another and thus built her own pit of depression to fall into on a regular basis