Classic Poem

Of late, what time the bear turned round
At midnight in her wonted way,
And men of all sorts slept full sound,
O'ercome with labour of the day:

The God of Love came to my door,
And took the ring, and knocked it hard:
" Who's there, " quoth I, " that knocks so sore?
You break my sleep, my dreams are marred. "

" A little boy, forsooth, " quoth he,
" Dung-wet with rain this moonless night. "
With that methought it pitied me:
I oped the door, and candle light.

And straight a little boy I spied;
A winged boy with shafts and bow;
I took him to the fireside,
And set him down to warm him so.

His little hands in mine I strain,
To rub and warm them therewithal;
Out of his locks I crush the rain,
From which the drops apace down fall.

At last, when he was waxen warm,
" Now let me try my bow, " quoth he;
" I fear my string hath caught some harm,
And wet, will prove too slack for me. "

He said; and bent his bow, and shot;
And wightly hit me on the heart;
The wound was sore; and raging hot,
The heat like fury reeks my smart.

" Mine host, " quoth he, " my string is well, "
And laughed so, that he leaped again:
" Look to your wound for fear it swell,
Your heart may hap to feel the pain. "