Love

                                                   by “Jay Archer Thorne

“Love”? yes it is a funny thing,

     But all the maidens love it;

It makes a million poets sing,

     And queens are not above it.

It cause me to sing full oft,

     And one could scarcely blame me;

A pair of eyes, divinely soft,

     Each blissful moment claim me.

But what of that, she’s not for me,

     Another soon will take her,]

And while I dwell in misery,

     His blushing bride will make her.

But I’ll not pine day after day,

     I’ll search in other quarters;

And in the month that follows May,

     Wed one of Moodus’ daughters.

So any maid who’s not afraid.

     That grief will e’er include us,

If fair she be should write to me,

     The love-sick bard of Moodus.

Aug. 18, ‘92

   Pub. in

Conn. Valley

  Advertiser.