And thrice repeats, ‘The seed I sow,
My true-love’s scythe the crop shall mow.’
Straight, as her frame fresh horrors freeze,
Her true love with his scythe she sees.
“And next, she seeks the Yew-tree shade,
Where he who died for love is laid;
There binds, upon the verdant sod
By many a moonlight fairy trod,
The Cowslip and the Lily-wreath
She wove her Hawthorn hedge beneath;