IX

4 0 00

IX

I cannot tell; I wish I could;

For the true reason no one knows:

But if you’d gladly view the spot,

The spot to which she goes;

The Heap that’s like an infant’s grave,

The Pond⁠—and Thorn, so old and gray;

Pass by her door⁠—’tis seldom shut⁠—

And, if you see her in her hut,

Then to the spot away!⁠—

I never heard of such as dare

Approach the spot when she is there.