Wings that rise from either shoulder
Like a flame and fan the air—
Love is sadder grown and older,
Plays no more with bow and arrows,
Scarce has heart to feed his sparrows.
Paint him like a penitent,
Wan with keeping year-long Lent,
Worn with watching, faint with prayer,
Dust, not roses, in his hair.
Give him, for his bow and quiver,