The rope that binds this child about
Is sorrow winding no way out:
He stands by the hawthorn hedge and bound
Takes in the prison of his ground.
Brothers and friends, the other side,
Pass by and leave the wounded wide.
Untrammeled, they scamper out of shade:
It was for them the sun was made.
The child clings to the fence to touch
A stake as though it bore as much,
And over his head the hawthorn thrives
In clouds of blossom cloaking knives.
In grief, however word or hand
Reach out for love, the bitter end
Snarls in a bight and shall not part
Though thorn or blossom touch the heart.
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