To he whose laughter knows no rest
a brier’s brush I give--
with hemlock leaves in withered nest
where crows and cuckolds live.
In every pierce, of every bite
my hearth hath spit to thee,
an ember to a flame alight
wouldst thou spit back at me.
So answering thy careless bilk
wherein thy prick hath sown,
I serenade with spiders' silk
that long since turned to bone.
In Thicket Thorne that ‘ere conceals
The longing that my heart reveals.
