Our love is like a little Jenny wren

Call me she said; call me to bed
And say that our love isn’t dead.
“So I called her—softly. And I said.
Come—lay dear” where we wed.
Come—lay-on that homely, bedstead:
Come—lay-on that honeymoon-bed.

And next listen! Until, your heart is fed
Until, your wings are fully wingspread.
Like the nightingale on the wind..., said:
Whilst suckering on golden-cornbread.
Oh, our love is like a little Jenny wren...
Who wearies not at her winters den?

But is the first of filtering spring to lend
Her music to our own wellbeing’s, blend.
Oh, be to her, her one—true friend,
Oh, be that love to me—I’ll never amend.
Before our bodies lay like peat in a fen
Be sure mine soul is your only bailsmen.