|
|
|
|
Ah, Eros doth not always smite Ah, Eros doth not always smite With cruel, shining dart, Whose bitter point with sudden might Rends the unhappy heart -- Not thus forever purple-stained, And sore with steely touch, Else were its living fountain drained Too oft and overmuch. O'er it sometimes the boy will deign Sweep the shaft's feathered end; And friendship rises without pain Where the white plumes descend.
|