Little God, The (To Her Who Knows)

Love the God is always young
     Always keeps is votaries so,
     Curving red lips are is bow
With delicious kisses strung

Words for arrows tipped with sweet,
     The delights to wing, and smiles
     Through his veil of tender wiles
On the conquest at his feet.

Love the Tyrant holds us all
     Happy in our lily chain
     He who would be free again
Never was his loyal thrall.

Whoso in his service lives
     Richer grows for every gift,
     Into hands of boon we lift
Pearl for flint his bounty gives.

Love the saucy Archer Boy
     Wounds to bless and strikes to heal,
     Larger bliss through pangs we feel,
In his griefs a deeper joy.

Cunning Elf! My heart I lay
     On thy altar, and behold
     Even as diamond is to gold
Is the heart I bear away!

Beakers of my homely wine
     Only rich in what they mean,
     Win such golden hippocrene
I am shamed to call it mine.

Conscience, fearing some mistake,
     Brings thy jewel kisses back
     Every one, I dare not look!
Take them, Sweet, for conscience’ sake!

Ah, the god-rogue laughs to see
     Each return but double yet,
     Cent per cent, my boundless debt;—
I am bankrupt! Love, take me!