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.