The crier

I cry you Love — at earliest break of day

But now, even now, his wings the wanderer spread

And passed away,

Leaving his empty bed.

Ho! ye that meet the boy — for such is he,

Full of sweet tears and wit; a fickle sprite

Laughing and free,

With wings and quiver bright!

Yet know I not on whom to father Love —

For earth denies the wanton child his name,

And air above,

And the broad sea the same.

With each and all he lives at feud. Beware

Lest, while I speak, he cast

A dainty snare

Over your hearts at last.

But see! his hiding-place, his very self,

Close to my hand, behold, the archer lies

A laughing elf

Within my lady's eyes.