By pricking of a spindle-point—ah, woeful prophecy!
But now, a kind young Fairy, who had waited to the last,
Stepped forth, and said, “No, she shall sleep till a hundred years are past;
And then she shall be wakened by a King's son—truth I tell—
And he will take her for his wife, and all will yet be well.”
In vain in all her father's Court the spinning-wheel's forbid
In vain in all the country-side the spindles sharp are hid;
For in a lonely turret high, and up a winding stair,
There lives an ancient woman who still turns her wheel with care.
The Princess found her out one day, and tried to learn to spin;
Alas! the spindle pricked her hand—the charm had entered in!
And down she falls in death-like sleep: they lay her on her bed,
And all around her sink to rest—a palace of the dead!
A hundred years pass—still they sleep, and all around the place
A wood of thorns has risen up—no path a man can trace.
At last, a King's son, in the hunt, asked how long it had stood,
And what old towers were those he saw above the ancient wood.