Straight remnant of the spiry birchen bough,
That over the streamlet wont perchance to quake
Thy many twinkling leaves and, bending low,
Beheld thy white rind dancing on the lake —
How doth thy present state, poor stick! awake
My pathos — for, alas! even stripped as thou
May be my beating breast, if ever forsake
Philisto this poor heart; and break his vow.
So musing on, I fare with many a sigh
And meditating then on times long past,
To thee, lorn pole! I look with tearful eye,
As all beside the floor-soiled pail thou art cast;
And my sad thoughts, while I behold thee twirled,
Turn on the twistings of this troublous world.