Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/91

39 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 join'd 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

It sweeps from vale to vale;

Not five yards from the mountain-path,