The joiner looked; and not a line
to hint of the child's being his.
Then, Beautiful but never mine
he said, and Who the father is,
when tales of angel and of dove
are laughed away - now, who can tell?
But oh my love and Oh, my Love:
was this done well?

She said, I have not done you wrong;
but warmth of grain and animal, 
and strips of linen, will not long
preserve him: see, he is so small
that were we either guilty (and
we are not) merely pity could
have seen him, by your easy hand,
	cradled in wood.

Then: I will make him what is fit,
the joiner said, though he is none
of mine - and wish him joy of it.
And in an hour the work was done:
the joiner brought what he had made.
And in that coffin like a toy
he and the weeping mother laid
	the destined boy.