For A Lady Who Must Write Verse

By Dorothy Parker

Unto seventy years and seven,

 Hide your double birthright well-

You, that are the brat of Heaven

 And the pampered heir to Hell.

Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,

 Strung and seen and thrown aside.

Drill your apt and docile measures

 Sternly as you drill your pride.

Show your quick, alarming skill in

 Tidy mockeries of art;

Never, never dip your quill in

 Ink that rushes from your heart.

When your pain must come to paper,

 See it dust, before the day;

Let your night-light curl and caper,

 Let it lick the words away.

Never print, poor child, a lay on

 Love and tears and anguishing,

Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon

 Murmur, "Silly little thing!"