The heart-thief
A heart can be quite brash, a heart can be demure,
A thief though is a thief, of that you can be sure.
Wessel
Ah Cupid is well-known, the wicked lad!
Portrayed as a sweet child that goes unclad,
With bow and arrow, and great wings what’s more;
That sounds more like some superstitious lore,
How could one think he thus would fly around,
No, God forbid! He’s always clothed or gowned;
And every time he wants to match a pair,
He knows precisely just what clothes to wear.
The young girl would then most of all him see
Clad as a student, officer maybe;
And for such men the converse would apply!
They’d most of all a girl in him espy.
From top to toe, this devious young pup
Is but a thief who ought to be strung up.
– The very first time that he caught my eye,
I was still young, a simple lad though spry;
With other children I played hide and seek,
And twixt a fence and rosebush sought to sneak,
I wormed my way in and then squatted down,
No one could find me, I made not one sound;
Along came Lise from next door – you see?
A hideout – handsome officer was he!
But what they spoke of I have no idea,
I saw though all the roses nod from here,
And deep inside one rose that dangled low
Across the fence – impossible, I know!
There sat – though common sense it just defies!
There sat an officer, mere finger-size,
Moustachioed, with sword and cap was he,
Just like the officer he seemed to be!
I saw just how the rose began to sway,
Saw it brush Lise’s nose and cheek, straightway
The full-size officer plucked stem and head,
And Lise took it, though she turned quite red.
Whoosh! out flew a lovely-wingèd butterfly –
Yes, Cupid – with his little finger I
Was told to never tell all that I saw;
For there was kissing, I looked on in awe!
Since when I often little Cupid met,
Maybe in silks, or homespun tunic dressed;
But I, when older, came to realise
That what he did was not exactly nice,
For I then swore, no matter what, that he
Would never get his fingers close to me.
This I did swear at confirmation time,
And now – just listen to what fate was mine! –
– Close to the village where the vicar dwells
There is a hazel wood with groves and dells,
Wild strawberries galore one’s eyes there spy,
I came there on a day the sun was high,
Behind the trees a farmboy there I saw
Collecting strawberries upon a straw,
I filled both hands with them and ate;
The lad showed me his straw, now full beset,
And then a chat between us two did start,
It was as if a knife plunged in my heart.
I grew so odd – the fellow laughed at me,
It was but Cupid and his devilry.
They were not berries, no, but tiny hearts,
That on his straw he’d threaded with great art;
This I felt keenly, and among their throng
My heart must surely be, as on a thong!
I scolded, wept and prayed, but he just laughed
And curtly said ‘Oh yes!’ Such is my craft,
See here, these are today’s hearts, what is more,
And yours is now the last one on the straw.’
He stressed these words, quite heedless of my grief,
And off he sped, the callous, wicked thief!
I set out after him as fast as I could go,
And cried out without ceasing in my woe
But all too soon he’d disappeared from view.
Now I imagine without more ado
He’ll go from door to door with stolen hearts,
And that which pains me most, which hurts and smarts,
Will peddle mine, that is his ruthless plan;
So I must steal it back now if I can!
Perhaps there’s someone quite prepared to give?
For heartless I can never learn to live!
To see the original poem, go to here.
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