My Love has gone astray,
This very morn he left me.
The wild lad flew away,
Of sleep bereft me.

His back two wings uprears,
His hand a quiver peerless,
Sly smiles he sends, soft tears;
Glib, swift, and fearless.

You ask whose son is he?
I cannot guess it even.
None owns him, neither sea
Nor earth nor heaven.

All hate him: even now
Beware the way he's going.
He's snaring hearts, I trow,
For men's undoing.

Hist! there in archer's guise
I see him taking cover.
He hides in Zeno's eyes:
My search is over.