Chapter LV

Like the soft air of summer is thy smile,
That, lighting on my sadness, clears the air,
To make this clouded life again seem fair,
With all thy deft enchantments, that beguile
The swains that follow thee for many a mile.
But with thy sunshine I find lurking there,
Something in thee that bringeth deep despair,
Seeming to savor of young Cupid’s wile.
Then hath he not, mayhap, enveigled thee
Into the mischief of his lover’s net,
And caused thee to torment thy swains anew,
With tricks, of which thou mayst the author be?
’Twould seem as if some love-snare he had set,
To wreck the lives of lovers not a few.