Littell's Living Age/Volume 141/Issue 1822/A Cynic

And so your life has been a dreary story Of treachery against you, leal and true; And little of our nature’s tender glory Is yet revealed to you.

You think that you are wise and I am dreaming The dream of youth — as beautiful as vain — That friendship is another name for scheming, And love is — love of gain.

My friend, not long ago my dull existence Passed slowly by within a city drear, I watched the endless roofs, the smoky distance, The sparrows, prating near,

At length a footstep mounted to my attic: One entered in and reached to me his hands, And now I go with him — O joy ecstatic! —              Across the meadow-lands.

The saucy robin trills his carol near us, The lark arises at our very feet, While speckled thrush and blackbird often cheer us              With mellow notes and sweet.

And he — my guide — has promised me that yonder Are built the nests of doves and nightingales, In secret woods where we alone shall wander, In more sequestered vales.

But you — you look for doves in city alleys, For nightingales among the sparrow crew — Then marvel that the music of our valleys Is still unheard by you.