LoBD

Suppose that Love, for good or ill,
were not a fresh faced maid,
that sits and sings by purling stream
nor sleeps in coolest shade.

Suppose her eye, infamous eye,
does not seek, is not cruel,
disdains visions of future days,
adheres to Reason's rule.

Suppose her hands, her shapely hands,
Do not rest idly by,
nor braid daisies all afternoon
down where the goslings lie.

Suppose instead, it is a stretch,
that Love is old and grey.
she walks the streets of town by night
gives all she makes by day.

Suppose her eye is milky white
from cataracts and tears,
and though it seems her vision's left
its sharper than a spear.

Suppose her hands, spotted and bent
are constantly at work,
they do not tire, nor think on rest,
nor look for ways to shirk.

Suppose again, that Love is both
the maiden and the crone.
The crown of flowers grace grey hair,
young hands work to the bone.

For Love cannot exist without
the beauty of the morn,
nor can she live without hard work,
with patience through a storm.