Sweet hawthorn, green
Flourishing
Beside this fair river bank
You are clothed right to the end
Of your long arm 
With wild ivy.

Two parties of burrowing ants
Are placed
Like decoration beneath your stump;
And in your half-eaten trunk
Established,
The bees have their bed.

The sweet little,
Young little nightingale
With his beloved
To make light of love's work
Comes to live
Each year in your branches.

In which he makes his nest
Well lined
With wool and fine silk
Where his little ones will hatch out,
Who will be
Fresh prey to my hands.

So live sweet hawthorn
Kive without end
Live without ever thunder
Or the axe or the wind
Or time
Being able to bring you crashing to the ground.