Of all pages, wily Cupid

Is most pampered and ill-bred,

Playing pranks with naughty children,

Sleeping in a lady’s bed…

As is usual with burglars,

He keeps clear of any light

And, with great precaution groping,

Climbs the window-sills at night.

Ribbons and all sort of trifles

Are his only fortune true;

He’s profuse if you don’t want them,

Avaricious if you do.

When, for truth, you con moth-eaten

Volumes at the candle’s flare,

You will find, stuck to their folios,

Strands from her bright golden hair.

He implants the haziest notions

In the crude and unripe age

And, all night, of brilliant pictures

He unfolds an ample page.

When the little girl is tortured

By some dizzy thought of love,

It is sure they slept together

Closely, each a turtle-dove.

He is timorous like children

But his smile is worldly-wise,

And his eyes are full of languor,

Just as are a widow’s eyes.

Dainty neck and graceful shoulders,

Rounded, white-as-lily breasts –

He protects them by embraces

And his palms are cozy nests.

If you ask him amiably,

He is cruel enough, vile thing,

To remove – but just a little –

The white veil off everything.