BY the road, near her father?s dwelling,
 There groweth a hawthorn tree:
Its blossoms are fair and fragrant
 As the love that I cast from me. 
It is all a-bloom this morning
 In the sunny silentness,
And grows by the roadside, radiant
 As a bride in her bridal dress. 

But ah me! at sight of its blossoms
 No pleasant memories start:
I see but the thorns beneath them?
 And the thorns they pierce my heart.