I cannot rest, I cannot rest
In straight and shiny wood,
My woven hands upon my breast-
The dead are all so good!

The earth is cool across their eyes;
They lie there quietly.
But I am neither old nor wise;
They do not welcome me.

Where never I walked alone before,
I wander in the weeds;
And people scream and bar the door,
And rattle at their beads.

We cannot rest, we never rest
Within a narrow bed
Who still must love the living best
Who hate the pompous dead!

Analysis, meaning and summary of Dorothy Parker's poem The White Lady

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