Spring

by Sara Teasedale
In Central Park the lovers sit,
   On every hilly path they stroll,
Each thinks his love is infinite,
   And crowns his soul.
But we are cynical and wise,
   We walk a careful foot apart,
You make a little joke that tries
   To hide your heart.
Give over, we have laughed enough;
   Oh dearest and most foolish friend,
Why do you wage a war with love
   To lose your battle in the end?