Little Old Cupid



'Twas a very small garden;
The paths were of stone,
Scattered with leaves,
With moss overgrown;

And a little old Cupid
Stood under a tree,
With a small broken bow
He stood aiming at me.

The dog-rose in briars
Hung over the weeds,
The air was aflock
With the floating of seed,

And a little old Cupid
Stood under a tree,
With a small broken bow
He stood aiming at me.

The dovecote was tumbling,
The fountain dry,
A wind in the orchard
Went whispering by;

And a little old Cupid
Stood under a tree,
With a small broken bow
He stood aiming at me.



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