I searched the headstones for my Mary br Who Death decided to take so early; br When I chanced upon br A bush of thorns br Sharp pricker spikes br Two inches long; br Within the thicket br The tangled web br Stood a stone br Of unnamed dead br I asked the keeper br Who kept the grounds br Why he did not cut br The thicket down; br He eyed me with a mocking leer, br His lips betrayed a sense of fear; br He whispered low, a throaty sound br He hung his head while looking round. br 'I've tried to cut the brambles down, br I've hewed the branches near the ground br I broke three blades of my saw, br I clipped the needles that stabbed and tore br My shirt and flesh, my dungerees, br As I bent low, squatting on my knees. br But as I labored to cut and trim br It sprouted spikes, I couldn't win; br And then I espied what was writ br As I bent low and strained to twist, br The epitaph carved in stone; br I read it with a silent moan; br Here lies the body of a witch br Hung and burnt, br In bubbling pitch, br She cursed us as the flames grew higher br Writhing in the burning fire; br Her charred bones are buried here, br In a leaded coffin bier, br These briars encase her br Burnt remains, br Yet she seeks a mortal frame; br Do not cut these prickly vines br Which snake about her tomb and climb; br Do not trim or deracinate br These tangled briars that seal her fate; br This bitter wood entombs her will br Which still seeks vengeance br And always will.