I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There’ s no man may look upon her, no man;
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Blossom pale, she pulled down the pale blossom
At the moth hour and hid it in her bosom.
This beauty’ s kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.