But young as he, as fair and gay,
As fond of boyish sport or dance.
“Come, wrestle,” and, so saying, Love,
Loos’ning the quiver at his breast,
Hung it upon the bough above.
“These arrows,” quoth he, “when they rove,
Make youth a slave at my behest.”
Among the tender-blooming leaves
Death made his quiver sure and fast,
“My arrows bring rest when age grieves,”