Near his bed was a porch made of wood.

It was there that the myrtle tree stood.

     And he treated it well. 

     He was under its spell.

He’d have dressed it in silk if he could.

One fine night he heard feet softly tread,

when the darkness surrounded his bed.

     He waited, then grabbed. 

     And no thief had he nabbed

but a sweet little fairy, instead.

Every night she lay close to his side.

But, alas, he remained mystified    

     for he never could see

     her come out of the tree,

and each morning she left, unespied.

Then one night he held on to her hair.

Morning came and he gazed at her there.

     She was beautiful, more

      than he’d thought her before.

But no mortal was ever so fair.....

“Then you must be my myrtle!” he cried.

“Yes I am.  I’ve been living outside.

  I would fain be your ward,

  if you’ll have me, my Lord.”

“Not my servant, but you’ll be my bride.