Once a little song I made
In a garden as I strayed,
On the myrtle leaves in morning dew I traced it;
But by noontide not a line
Found I of that song of mine,
Where the finger of the sunbeam had effaced it.

Then in scorn of self I laughed,
And forswore the Poet's craft,
And I turned from Love, the Poet's lord and master,
Yea, I turned and fled away,
But he followed me all day;
When I fled, he always followed me the faster.

Bow and arrow had he none,
But his looks were like the sun,
And his lips two founts of fire that flowed together,
He had wings of crimson grain,
Bright with pleasure, dark with pain,
And the tempest of his flight no god could tether.

From those wings he plucked a plume
And he pressed its point of doom
To his lips, where sleep the rosy-cradled kisses,
Back his weaponed hand he drew.
Aimed, and cleft my heart in two.
Oh, when Love selects the mark, he never misses!

Then I wept. But Love said, " Write. "
So I drew that plume to light
Streaming redder from the heart he just had smitten,
And I wrote, and learnt with years,
That on parchment washed with tears
And in heart's-blood every poem must be written.