Ah, wee one,
Croon unto the tendril tipped with sungilt,
Nodding thee from o'er the doorsill there.
My wheel shall sing to thee.
I pull the flax as golden as thy curl,
And sing me of the blossoms blue,
Their promise, like thine eyes to me.
"Tis faulty spinning, dear---
A cradle built of thornwood,
A nest for thee, my bird.
I hear thy crooning, wee one,
And ah, this fluttering heart!
'Tis such a merry tale I spin.
Ah, wee one, croon unto the honey bee
Who diggeth at the rose's heart.
My wheel shall sing to thee,
Heart-blosson mine. The sunny morn
Doth hum with lovelilt, dear.
I fain would leave my spinning to
The spider climbing there,
And bruise thee, blossom, to my breast.
What fancies I do weave!
Thy dimpled hand doth flutter, dear,
Like a petal cast adrift
Upon the breeze.