In aspen woods there is a sacred space,
Which by the Bones I think the Crow had roost,
And there I took my craft: needle, thread, and lace,
And sewed Love’s idol. But not Cupid I’produced,
Not that casual boy, of the blind arrow,
But someone with a honey jar, sweets plenty,
And without wings, but an earthy barrow,
Where no eros fly, but grow in years many,
I sewed a Man’s great arms, love must lift much,
Above a Woman’s hands, must tender bruise,
Under Child’s eyes, love sees with tender touch,
With Lion’s grin, for you I’d much bemuse,
So what then was the figure I had sown?
Naught but this one, which now to you I’ve shown.
Cheers to your Sunday morning…