I laugh—and do not care.
When I think sometimes of the joy I knew,
The gay, glad laughter ere my heart was wise,
The trivial happiness that seemed so true,
The tears are in my eyes.
Time—Time the cynic—how he mocks us all!
And yet to-day I can but think him right.
Ah, heart, the old joy is so tragical
And the old grief so light.
—The Reader Magazine.