IX.

I cannot tell; I wish I could; For the true reason no one knows, But if you’d gladly view the spot, The spot to which she goes; The heap that’s like an infant’s grave, The pond--and thorn, so old and grey, Pass by her door--’tis seldom shut-- And if you see her in her hut, Then to the spot away!-- I never heard of such as dare Approach the spot when she is there.