Why should we set these hearts of ours above
The rest, and cramp them in possession's clutch?
Poor things, we gasp and strain to capture love,
And in our hands, it powders to our touch.
We turn the fragrant pages of the past,
Mournful with the scent of passion's faded flow'rs,
On every one we read, "Love cannot last"--
So how could ours?
It is the quest that thrills, not the gain,
The mad pursuit, and not the cornering:
Love caught is but a drop of April rain,
But bloom on the moth's translucent wing.
Why should you dare hope that you and I
Could make love's fitful flash a lasting flame?
Still, if you think it's only fair to try--
Well, I'm game.
by Dorothy Parker
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