When young Dan Cupid dipped his fiery shaft
Deep in the liquid blue of Psyche's eyes,
Then took three strands of raveled midnight skies
And strung his silver bow with these, and laughed,
Thy doom, O son of Esculapius’ craft,
Was sealed:— the fatalest dart that flies
Is Eros’ bolt, and surest of its prize —
And now, physician, take thy healing draft.
Ah, no; it is not unto death but life,
That thou art sick, although pierced through the heart!
Wondrous disease that no physician's art
Can heal, that will not yield to surgeon's knife,—
A blessed wound that ever must grow worse.
How fortunate, O man, that she's a nurse!