Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/44

36 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.

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,

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.