Mysticism

by Witty Ludwig

Count Eberhard’s Hawthorn

Count Eberhard Rustle-Beard,
From Württemberg’s fair land,
On holy errand steer’d
To Palestina’s strand.
The while he slowly rode
Along a woodland way;
He cut from the hawthorn bush
A little fresh green spray.
Then in his iron helm
The little sprig he plac’d;
And bore it in the wars,
And over the ocean waste.
And when he reach’d his home;
He plac’d it in the earth;
Where little leaves and buds
The gentle Spring call’d forth.
He went each year to it,
The Count so brave and true;
And overjoy’d was he
To witness how it grew.
The Count was worn with age
The sprig became a tree;
‘Neath which the old man oft
Would sit in reverie.
The branching arch so high,
Whose whisper is so bland,
Reminds him of the past
And Palestina’s strand.

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