I dream'd there would be Spring no more,
      That Nature's ancient power was lost:
      The streets were black with smoke and frost,
They chatter'd trifles at the door:

I wander'd from the noisy town,
      I found a wood with thorny boughs:
      I took the thorns to bind my brows,
I wore them like a civic crown:

I met with scoffs, I met with scorns
      From youth and babe and hoary hairs:
      They call'd me in the public squares
The fool that wears a crown of thorns:

They call'd me fool, they call'd me child:
      I found an angel of the night;
      The voice was low, the look was bright;
He look'd upon my crown and smiled:

He reach'd the glory of a hand,
      That seem'd to touch it into leaf:
      The voice was not the voice of grief,
The words were hard to understand.


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Last modified 14 February 2010