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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.

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Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown

With lichens to the very top,

And hung with heavy tufts of moss,

A melancholy crop :

And this

Up from the earth these mosses creep, 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 join'd in one endeavour

To bury this poor Thorn for ever.


High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale

Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds from vale to vale;

It sweeps

Not five yards from the mountain path,

This Thorn you on your left espy;

And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy Pond

Of water never dry;

I've measured it from side to side :

"Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.


And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
A beauteous heap, a Hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.

All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen;
And mossy network too is there,

As if by hand of lady fair

The work had woven been ;
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermillion dye.

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