THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER

Love, the wild fowler, spreads his nets with care,

And deep-toned warning both our hearts have heard,

Even as the old-time low-bell held each bird

Suddenly trembling, nestling pair by pair

Dark in the covert, till a blinding glare

Of torchlight and a clamorous shouted word

Dazed their bright eyes, and terrified wings upwhirred

To baffled blundering in the close-drawn snare.

So, dear, we cower at our warning bell.

Creep close to me, where shadows gird us round.

Fear we that wild revealment? Nay, not we!

“Ah, perilous play, to cross Love's stalking-ground!”

You whisper... yet our eyes, our eyes could tell

Of hearts that leap to meet their certainty!