Yet soft delight. Whene’er I smelt
Its odour, strong desire I felt
Possess me wholly that I might
Snatch for mine own that dear delight.
But thorns and thistles grew so thick
Around the rose-bush, prone to prick
And wound the profanous hand that dared
Approach and grasp it, that I spared
To risk the rash attempt, afraid
My love might be with wounds apaid.1750
XIII
Herein the Dreamer telleth how
He felt the shaft of Cupid’s bow.
E’en as he sought his hand to close
Around the stem, and snatch the rose,
Whose fragrance through his soul had sent
Such madness and bewilderment.
But this, his fondest hope, denied
The God of Love, who him espied.
Love speeds a shaft
The God of Love, whose bow was bent
With purpose fell, where’er I went1760
Pursued my steps, and took his stand
Beneath a fig-tree, close at hand
To where, with arm upraised, I sought
To pluck the Rose whose beauty brought
Me thither; then he took a shaft
And nocking it, with bowman’s craft,
Drew the string taut against his ear
With mighty arm, for well that gear
