How bold it is, this fine young love we bear;
A high, white flame, to cut the ghostly night;
A virgin armor, burnished hard and bright
To turn the blows of age and death and care!
Too brave a thing it is, to see it break
Beneath the unending taps of little things--
Of sharpened words, and hurried answerings,
And fretful illness, and recited ache,
And tiny jealousies, and whimpering woe,
And household plannings, year upon futile year,
And patient "Yes, my love," and "Yes, my dear,"
And "Why did you do thus, and why do you do so?"
Quick, let us part, that never our love may be
As now we know it, young and bold free.
by Dorothy Parker
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