The Archer's Plea

You wouldn't shoot with me, Edith,
When the heavens were argent and blue;
And now that the showers are falling,
Edith Anerly, what will you do?

To linger at breakfast and dinner,
To trifle a novelette through,
To walk in the porches with Leila,
Will that be sufficient for you?

The evening will come with its music
And feet dropping gently as dew;
Perhaps with the murmurs and throbbings
Of a Douglas tender and true.

I hope it will all be delightful,
I trust there'll be nothing to rue,
Although I would gladly have had you
One hour with the target and yew.

The arrows that glint through the matches
Of life, do they all whistle true?
Are they missioned to centre the yellow,
Or even to edge on the blue?

I trust that the shafts of your drawing
Will fly as Maid Marian's flew
So truly and duly and nobly
You may not regret that you drew.

But I shall depart and not see it,
Leave here and leave earth before you;
Shall go unregretted, forgotten,
And apart as the Wandering Jew.

So remember, before I have vanished,
To do what alone you may do,
And give me one hour of Diana,
Lithe maid, lovely maid, of the yew.