T' OTHER day, as I was twining Roses for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, midst the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor, -- Love himself! By the wings I pinched him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him; And what d'ye think I did? -- I drank him! Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with tenfold glee; And now this moment, with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings. (Paraphrase from the Greek by Leigh Hunt.) |