  O LOVE! What art thou, Love? the ace of hearts, Trumping Earth’s kings and Queens, and all its suits; A player masquerading many parts In life’s odd carnival;—A boy that shoots, From ladies’ eyes, such mortal woundy darts; A gardener, pulling heart’s-ease up by the roots; The Puck of Passion—partly false—part real— A marriageable maiden’s “beau-ideal.” O Love, what art thou, Love? a wicked thing, Making green misses spoil their work at school; A melancholy man, cross-gartering? Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool? A youngster tilting at a wedding-ring? A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool? A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel? O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad With palpitations of the heart—like mine— A poor bewildered maid, making so sad A necklace of her garters—fell design! A poet gone unreasonably mad, Ending his sonnets with a hempen line? O Love!—but whither now? forgive me, pray; I’m not the first that Love hath led astray. Thomas Hood. |
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