The Arrow

p. 20

The Arrow.

I thought of your beauty and this arrow

Made out of a wild thought is in my marrow.

There's no man may look upon her, no man,

As when newly grown to be a woman,

Blossom pale, she pulled down the pale blossom

At the moth hour and hid it in her bosom.

This beauty's kinder yet for a reason

I could weep that the old is out of season.