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There is a Thorn-it looks so old,
Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens it is overgrown.
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
With plain and manifest intent,
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
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,
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,
All lovely colours there you see,
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.