The Hawthorn

BY the road, near her father’s dwelling,
   There groweth a hawthorn tree:
Its blossoms are fair and fragrant
   As the love that I cast from me.
It is all a-bloom this morning
   In the sunny silentness,
And grows by the roadside, radiant
   As a bride in her bridal dress.

But ah me! at sight of its blossoms
   No pleasant memories start:
I see but the thorns beneath them—
   And the thorns they pierce my heart.