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;