by John Vance Cheney
Love came, one night, his wings all wet,
And put his face against the pane,
And shook his ringlets in the rain;
When soon I heard the sweetest noise,
Made 'twixt the wind, his wings and voice;
I heard it, and I hear it yet.
What could I do but ope the door,
And take him softly from the storm,
And rub his rosy body warm,
And hang to dry the slackened bow
And silver arrows, dripping so,
And make him happy as before?
I wist not what he was about:
He took an arrow dry and clean,
And said, " 'T will fly right well, I ween. "
Now, here it is, the very dart,
The barbs well fastened in my heart,
Only the feathers sticking out.
Last updated September 07, 2017