I
wander’d from the noisy town,
I found a wood with thorny boughs:
I took the thorns to bind my brows,
I
wore them like a civic crown:
I
met with scoffs, I met with scorns
From youth and babe and hoary hairs:
They call’d me in the public squares
The
fool that wears a crown of thorns:
They
call’d me fool, they call’d me child:
I found an angel of the night;
The voice was low, the look was bright;
He
look’d upon my crown and smiled:
He
reach’d the glory of a hand,
That seem’d to touch it into leaf:
The voice was not the voice of grief,
The
words were hard to understand.