Landscape

Now this must be the sweetest place
From here to Heaven's end;

The field is white with flowering lace,
The birches leap and bend,

The hills, beneath the roving sun,
From green to purple pass,

And little, trifling breezes run

Their fingers through the grass.
So good it is, so gay it is,
So calm it is, and pure,

A one whose eyes may look on this

Must be the happier, sure.
But me - I see it flat and gray

And blurred with misery,

Because a lad a mile away
Has little need of me.

Dorothy Parker 1893-1967