As lone I sat one summer’s day,
With mien dejected, Love came by;
His face distraught, his locks astray,
So slow his gait, so sad his eye,
I hailed him with a pitying cry:
‘Pray, Love, what has disturbed thee so?’
Said I, amazed. ‘Thou seem’st bereft;
And see thy quiver hanging low,–
What, not a single arrow left?
Pray, who is guilty of this theft?’
Poor Love looked in my face and cried:
‘No thief were ever yet so bold
To rob my quiver at my side.
But Time, who rules, gave ear to Gold,
And all my goodly shafts are sold.’
