II

4 0 00

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:

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.