SOME, Cupid kills with arrows, Some, with traps; But this spring the little rascal Found, perhaps, That he needed both to slay me; So he laid a cunning snare On the hillside, and he hid it In a lot of maidenhair; And I doubt not he is laughing At the joke, For he made his arrows out of Poison-oak. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY by ROBERT AYTON A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING DESERT FLOWERS by KEITH CASTELLAINE DOUGLAS ASTRONOMY by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN TRAVEL by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON PSALM 123 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE TO A SPIRIT (1) by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE WANDERER: 3. IN ENGLAND: THE FOUNT OF TRUTH by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |