LOVE’S HUNTING

Hast thou seen a boy so clever, Bow in hand, and from his shoulders Three tipped arrows in a quiver, With which, piercing all beholders, He goes up and down forever? One dart, in the deep eye clinging, Blinds us ever to his aiming; One straight at the white throat flinging, He denies his wrong’s complaining; One he leaves in the heart stinging. And the last dart, tipt with scorning, Quickly kindles a hot passion Which consumes us with its burning: Eyeless, tongueless, in such fashion, Blind and mute, we wander yearning. James Herbert Morse.