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

Of gold loop down to meet his wings,

Whose feathers, arched their stillness through,

Gleam with slow-gathering drops of dew.

The mouse-bat peers; the stealthy vole

Creeps from the covert of its hole;

A shimmering moth its pinions furls,

Grey in the moonshine of his curls;

‘ Neath the faint stars the night-airs stray,

Scattering the fragrance of the may;

And with each stirring of the bough

Shadow beclouds his childlike brow.