Sitting in Michael's Lap
Thou, love, a child of fickle humour art;
Thy nature is a mystery to me --
Upon an hour, thou Heaven's boon may be --
Upon the next, a malady of heart.
So how am I, a stranger to thy way,
To recognize thy delicate pretense,
To know the shield, the adequate defense,
That might thy felling stroke and conquest stay?
I trust thee not, tho' thou alone impart
The bliss that only dearest dreams may be:
For thou art better versed in cruelty
Than in the kinder virtues of the heart!