Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport
   At the soberest club in Pall Mall;
He winged an old veteran drinking his port,
   And down that old veteran fell. 
      ’Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that! 
      Hi, Love, what would you be at? 
         This cannot be right! 
         It’s ludicrous quite!’
But it’s no use to argue, for Love’s out of sight.

A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart
   Was planning a celibate vow;
But the boy’s random arrow has sunk in his heart,
   And the cell is an empty one now. 
      ’Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that! 
      Hi, Love, what would you be at? 
         He is not for you,
         He has duties to do.’ 
‘But I am his duty,’ quoth Love as he flew.

The king sought a bride, and the nation had hoped
   For a queen without rival or peer. 
But the little boy shot, and the king has eloped
   With Miss No-one on Nothing a year. 
      ’Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that! 
      Hi, Love, what would you be at? 
         What an impudent thing
         To make game of a king!’
‘But I’m a king also,’ cried Love on the wing.

Little boy Love grew pettish one day;
   ‘If you keep on complaining,’ he swore,
’I’ll pack both my bow and my quiver away,
   And so I shall plague you no more.’ 
      ’Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that! 
      Hi, Love, what would you be at? 
         You may ruin our ease,
         You may do what you please,
But we can’t do without you, you dear little tease!’

A PARABLE

The cheese-mites asked how the cheese got there,
   And warmly debated the matter;
The Orthodox said that it came from the air,
   And the Heretics said from the platter. 
They argued it long and they argued it strong,
   And I hear they are arguing now;
But of all the choice spirits who lived in the cheese,
   Not one of them thought of a cow,

A TRAGEDY

Who’s that walking on the moorland? 
   Who’s that moving on the hill? 
They are passing ’mid the bracken,
But the shadows grow and blacken
   And I cannot see them clearly on the hill.

Who’s that calling on the moorland? 
   Who’s that crying on the hill? 
Was it bird or was it human,
Was it child, or man, or woman,
   Who was calling so sadly on the hill?

Who’s that running on the moorland? 
   Who’s that flying on the hill? 
He is there—­and there again,
But you cannot see him plain,
   For the shadow lies so darkly on the hill.

What’s that lying in the heather? 
   What’s that lurking on the hill? 
My horse will go no nearer,
And I cannot see it clearer,
   But there’s something that is lying on the hill.

THE PASSING