The Cynic
I say it to comfort me over and over,
Having a querulous heart to beguile,
Never had woman a tenderer lover—
For a little while.
Oh, there never were eyes more eager to read her
In her saddest mood or her moments gay,
Oh, there never were hands more strong to lead her—
For a little way.
There never were loftier promises given
Of love that should guard her the ages through,
As great, enduring and steadfast as Heaven—
For a week or two.
Well, end as it does, I have had it, known it,
For this shall I turn me to weep or pray?
Nay, rather I laugh that I thought to own it
For more than a day.
Theodosia Garrison