Joyce Bridle (Oblate) OSB
Cupid doth shoot his arrow with immortal surety
In truth a marksman he, in miniature.
We neither hear nor see, but surely we do feel!
His aim is sure, his arrow swift
He neither shoots to kill nor maim
But hits he both, at once, the same...
All unawares, through life we go
Like busy bees or scurrying ants;
If only we, like trees and plants