A rock was my shelter from rain.
I found it a wearisome wait,
Cautiously shifting about.
There’s a canny son of the cliff
That has five buds to his hand.
You shall twine me a wreath of due length,
A wreath to encircle my love,
Whilst you hold desire in strong curb,
Till love-touch thaws the cold-hearted.
When you rise from sleep on the mat,