Till from its shades he flies,

And leaves forlorn and dim

The narrow solitudes

So strange to him.

So, when with fickle heart

I joyed in the passing day,

A presence my mood estranged

Went grieved away.

[Pg 31]

[Pg 31]

THE TIRED CUPID

The thin moonlight with trickling ray,

Thridding the boughs of silver may,

Trembles in beauty, pale and cool,

On folded flower, and mantled pool.

All in a haze the rushes lean—

And he—he sits, with chin between

His two cold hands; his bare feet set

Deep in the grasses, green and wet.

About his head a hundred rings

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