The Arrow

The Arrow

I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,

Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.

Theres no man may look upon her, no man,

As when newly grown to be a woman,

Tall and noble but with face and bosom

Delicate in colour as apple blossom.

This beautys kinder, yet for a reason

I could weep that the old is out of season.