Heart of the Needle

I, from war most weary, broken, did lay
By a stream to let my pain ease when heard
I a simple sound. I rose and saw a 
Lady, fair and gentle, but said no word.


She was sewing, mending, weaving, and I 
With each turn and pull felt my heart as thread
Pulled by her beauty's needle. When the high
Sun fell, she took her cloth and yarn and lead
   My eyes away. She had not known what she
   Had done, but by her simple and most true 
   Nature had mended a heart most weary,
   A soul most thread bare. She had made me new.


May these words be likened unto her thread,
And pray, make known my debt to her, once read.