Arch Archery

You ask me, darling, why I smile,
And at what pleasant thing ?
My thoughts go back a few months' while
To the fairest day in spring ;

The fairest day, in the end of March ;
The sun shone warm and bright ;
All blue and bland was the heaven's arch
With its calm clouds soft and white.

And some one said " I should like to go,
And shoot in this pleasant breeze."
And I humbly prayed " Let me be your bow,
You can bend me as you please."

And the saucy girl said " A bow of yew !
O a bow of yew must be good :
They say it is tough and strong and true,
Though a grave-devoted wood."

Over the rolling waves of sward
We lightly skimmed along ;
While the larks from the cloud and the azure poured
Freely their first full song

Then leaf-like came a-dropping down,
When their joy thro' heaven was told,
To the short sweet grass, to the gorse half brown
Half lit with shining gold.

And I said or thought : Not Dian queen
With her quiver and her bow,
A statelier form, a purer mien,
A lighter step could show.

Till we came to a long lone quiet glen,
Much loved of the thoughtful sheep :
Before the Flood — or, who knows when ? —
It perhaps was a river deep.

There were the targets ready placed,
Right gorgeous to behold ;
With their red rings, blue rings, white rings graced,
Around the central gold.

And there our mighty match we shot,
Like eager Volunteers.
Hit we the mark, or hit we not,
What merry laughs and jeers !

Gaily we tripped along the glen
Between the targets two,
With riant races now and then
For arrows in the dew.

O arch was she with her jest and smile,
And arch was I, I ween ;
But the Archer archest all the while
Was shooting there unseen.

Swift, swift and keen his arrows flew,
Well aimed at either heart ;
And pierced the poor things thro' and thro',
With a strange delicious smart.

Well — when the match was fairly done,
Who triumphed, she or I ?
We both had lost, we both had won ;
It ended in a tie.

For that third Archer, we agreed,
Alone should judge the case ;
And thus he solemnly decreed,
With wisdom in his face. —

" You — maiden of the witching eyes,
You — happiest of men ;
Must share the honour and the prize,
Nor ever strive again.

" For thus on either I bestow
The meed that fitteth well—
She is the mistress of the bow,
He bears away the bell."