Classic Poem

You close your book and put it down,
As one might drop a tiresome task;
And, with what tries to be a frown,
You turn and ask:

“How can you care one hour for me
Unless your love is all a sham?
‘Childish and cheap’—but can I be
More than I am?

“Your poet knows that love delights
Only its equals, near or far . . .
‘ We love the things we love ,’ he writes,
'For what they are.’ ”

You serious child, how can you place
Such utter credence in a song?
It is, I grant, a lovely phrase;
But it is wrong.

Why look, my darling, at the world
Rolling in blood and murderous flame.
And what's this life? A brief torch hurled
To darkness, whence it came.

The world is easy to revile
Where much is false and little true.
And yet we live in it, and smile.
—And love it, too.

Cease, then, to talk of wrong or right;
Finalities are cold and far.
We love the things we love in spite
Of what they are.