This imagery comes back again and again. Sparrows, thorns. the love that is all that remains when we leave this world.
These old Gothic Windows have haunted my dreams, but I find them excruciatingly beautiful. This is another Barb'ry Allen. One of the oldest written songs in the English language.
Barbara Allen was buried in the old churchyard
Sweet William was buried beside her,
Out of sweet William's heart, there grew a rose
Out of Barbara Allen's a briar.
They grew and grew in the old churchyard
Till they could grow no higher
At the end they formed, a true lover's knot
And the rose grew round the briar.
I've heard a lot of versions of this old song, but my favorite is my Uncle Kenny's.