Dorothy’s reputation as a wit sabotages her poetry, which is largely unfunny. The world is not vast enough to include Dorothy’s one-liners about Calvin Coolidge and poems like:
The Leal
The friends I made have slipped and strayed,
And who’s the one that cares?
A trifling lot and best forgot —
And that’s my tale, and theirs.
Then if my friendships break and bend,
There’s little need to cry
The while I know that every foe
Is faithful till I die.
("Leal" means "loyal and true.") Actually, this poem is funny, but in a mournful way. As a poet, Dorothy is like a tormented Edna Saint Vincent Millay. Not as powerful a composer, but similarly out-of-date, a beggar in the marketplace of poesy. Here is a great poem:
Penelope
In the pathway of the sun,
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
He shall cut the glittering way.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor’s knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
They will call him brave.