Love's Wounding

As the young stag, when lusty Spring supreme
O'er Winter's biting cold at last prevails,
To crop the honeyed leafage seeks new trails
And leaves his dear retreat at dawn's first gleam;

Alone, secure, afar (as he may deem)
From bay of hounds, or hunters' echoing hails,
Now on the mountain-slopes, now in the vales,
Now by the waters of a secret stream,

He wantons freely, at his own sweet will,
Knowing no fear of net or bow, until,
Pierced with one dart, he lies dead in his pride —

Even so I wandered, with no thought of woe,
In my life's April — when one quick-drawn bow
Planted a thousand arrows in my side.