Poem by Robert Seymour Bridges

Shorter Poems. Book I. 15. Rondeau

His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips
In juice of plants that no bee sips,
He takes, and with his bow renown’d
Goes out upon his hunting ground,
Hanging his quiver at his hips.

He draws them one by one, and clips
Their heads between his finger-tips,
And looses with a twanging sound
              His poisoned shafts.

But if a maiden with her lips
Suck from the wound the blood that drips,
And drink the poison from the wound,
The simple remedy is found
That of their deadly terror strips
              His poisoned shafts.

1. Shorter Poems. Book IV. 13. The Windmill
2. Shorter Poems. Book IV. 4. “The Clouds Have Left the Sky”
3. Shorter Poems. Book IV. 7. “Gáy Róbin Is Seen No More”
4. Shorter Poems. Book IV. 23. “The storm is over, the land hushes to rest”
5. Shorter Poems. Book IV. 10. “O Love, my muse, how was’t for me”

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