SONNET.—AMOR.

Cui amor nunc est similis? Of old

Painted they thee like beauteous boy, with bow

And quiver full of arrows tipped with gold,

Wherewith his victims pierced, delights might know—

Now, see we thee like to the fading flower,

Which in the morning richest sweets disclose;

Like to the queen of flowers, the mossy rose,

Which sets herself to die at evening hour—

Now see we thee when two fond hearts unite,

For Joy or sorrow, weal or wo, felt here;

And see we thee when woman sheds a tear

Of sorrow over Him whose chief delight

Was, erst, in tents of men He came to save—

Love, Love for man lay also in the grave.

W. A.