And on them hung full many a thorn;
A thistle crown, she mutt’ring twin’d,
Now darted on,—now look’d behind—
And here, and there, her arm was seen
Bleeding the tatter’d folds between;
Yet, on her breast she oft display’d
A faded branch, that breast to shade:
For though her senses were astray,
She felt the burning beams of day:
She felt the wintry blast of night,