Love rises up some days
From a blue couch of light
Upon the summer sky;
He wakes, and waking plays
With beams and dewdrops white;
His laugh is like the sunniest rain,
And patters through his voice;
He is so lovely, tolerant, and sane,
That the heart questions why
It doth not, every hour it beats, rejoice.

Yet sometimes Love awakes
On a black, hellish bed,
And rises up as hate:
He drinks the hurtful lakes,
He joys to toss and spread
Sparkles of pitchy, rankling flame,
He joys to play with death;
But when we look on him he is the same
Quaint child we blest of late,
And every word that once he said he saith.