And over the haystack’s pointed top,
All of a tremble, and ready to drop,
The first half-hour, the great yellow star
That we with staring, ignorant eyes,
Had often and often watched to see
Propped and held in its place in the skies
By the fork of a tall, red mulberry tree,
Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,—
Dead at the top—just one branch full
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool,