There is a thorn; it
looks so old,
In truth you'd find
it hard to say,
How it could ever
have been young,
It looks so old and
grey.
Not higher than a
two-years' child,
It stands erect this
aged thorn;
No leaves it has, no
thorny points;
It is a mass of
knotted joints,
A wretched thing
forlorn.
It stands erect, and
like a stone
With lichens it is
overgrown.
Like rock or stone,
it is o'ergrown
With lichens to the
very top,
And hung with heavy
tufts of moss,
A melancholy
crop:
Up from the earth
these mosses creep,
And this poor thorn
they clasp it round
So close, you'd say
that they were bent
With plain and
manifest intent,
To drag it to the
ground;
And all had joined
in one endeavour
To bury this poor
thorn for ever ...
