At last like roofless ingles it has f’und,
And gethers there in drift on endless drift,
Oor broken herts that it can never fill;
And still—its leafs like snaw, its growth like wund.—
The thistle rises and forever will!...
The thistle rises and forever will,
Getherin’ the generations under’t.
This is the monument o’ a’ they were,
And a’ they hoped and wondered.
The barren tree, dry leafs, and cracklin’ thorns,