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.