LOVE

O LOVE! What art thou, Love? the ace of hearts,

Trumping Earth’s kings and Queens, and all its suits;

A player masquerading many parts

In life’s odd carnival;—A boy that shoots,

From ladies’ eyes, such mortal woundy darts;

A gardener, pulling heart’s-ease up by the roots;

The Puck of Passion—partly false—part real—

A marriageable maiden’s “beau-ideal.”

O Love, what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,

Making green misses spoil their work at school;

A melancholy man, cross-gartering?

Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool?

A youngster tilting at a wedding-ring?

A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool?

A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,

Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?

O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad

With palpitations of the heart—like mine—

A poor bewildered maid, making so sad

A necklace of her garters—fell design!

A poet gone unreasonably mad,

Ending his sonnets with a hempen line?

O Love!—but whither now? forgive me, pray;

I’m not the first that Love hath led astray.

Thomas Hood.