Astray within a garden bright
I found a tiny winged sprite:
He scarce was bigger than a sparrow
And bore a little bow and arrow.
I lifted him up in my arm,
Without a thought of guile or harm;
But merely as it were in play,
With threats to carry him away.
The sport he took in such ill part,
He stuck an arrow in my heart.
And ever since, I have such pain,—
I cannot draw it out again.
And yet, the strangest part is this:
I love the pain as though‘ t were bliss.