‘The Thorn’ was always placed among the “Poems of the Imagination.”—­Ed.

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THE POEM

I “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 5
          It stands erect, this aged Thorn;
          No leaves it has, no prickly [1] points;
          It is a mass of knotted joints,
          A wretched thing forlorn. 
          It stands erect, and like a stone 10
          With lichens is it overgrown. [2]

II “Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown,
          With lichens to the very top,
          And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
          A melancholy crop:  15
          Up from the earth these mosses creep,
          And this poor Thorn they clasp it round
          So close, you’d say that they are [3] bent
          With plain and manifest intent
          To drag it to the ground; 20
          And all have [4] joined in one endeavour
          To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

III “High on a mountain’s highest ridge,
          Where oft the stormy winter gale
          Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 25
          It sweeps from vale to vale;
          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 30
          Of water—­never dry
          Though but of compass small, and bare
          To thirsty suns and parching air. [5] [A]

IV “And, close beside this aged Thorn,
          There is a fresh and lovely sight, 35
          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, 40
          As if by hand of lady fair
          The work had woven been;
          And cups, the darlings of the eye,
          So deep is their vermilion dye.

V “Ah me! what lovely tints are there 45
          Of olive green and scarlet bright,
          In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
          Green, red, and pearly white! 
          This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss,
          Which close beside the Thorn you see, 50
          So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
          Is like an infant’s grave in size,
          As like as like can be: 
          But never, never any where,
          An infant’s grave was half so fair. 55