Love Penitent
Paint me, Love, not, as of old,
Like a reveler overbold—
Roses dropping from his hair,
Wings that rise from either shoulder
Like a flame and fan the air—
Love is sadder grown and older,
Plays no more with bow and arrows,
Scarce has heart to feed his sparrows.
Paint him like a penitent,
Wan with keeping year-long Lent,
Worn with watching, faint with prayer,
Dust, not roses, in his hair.
Give him, for his bow and quiver,
At his belt a pair of beads;
If the cold air make him shiver,
Give him sackcloth for his needs.
Lingering farewells, merry meetings,
Stolen looks and fancy greetings,
Dance and song and revel gay,
He must put them all away.
Bid him with his naked feet
Trample out his torch’s flame,
Turn from wine and dainty meat,
All his wandering fancies tame:
Only, lest we quite forget him—
We that used to spoil and pet him—
Grant him through his penance sad
But one gift his childhood had—
Neither torch nor shaft nor bow,
But the smile we used to know.
Henry Johnstone.