Harshitha Chowdary

'Mother! I've seen a little boy
With curling locks and eyes of blue;
They seemed the very eyes for joy,
Though wet with tears like morning dew.
'His shoulders half with wings were hid,
For play-things he had bow and quiver;
And while he sued, as sue he did,
His tears came gushing like a river.
'And sighed, one's very soul to wring,
Soothing the while a prisoned dove;
Yet still that wild ungrateful thing
Strove to be free, but vainly strove.

'So soft he sued, he couldn't fail;
I listened, till my heart was aching,
And He, the while he told his tale,
He sobbed as if his own were breaking.'
'Oh Nea! be not thou beguiled
By all his tears and all his sueing;
Learn, silly girl! that weeping child,
That weeping child is our undoing.
'He'll win thee with his urchin sigh,
Then work thee woe, and laugh for joy;
While thou shalt stand in anguish by,
All vain to melt that laughing boy.
'Then when again the sprite you see,
You'll tell him by his prisoned dove—
Run—shut the door—turn quick the key—
You know not what a boy is Love.'