Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/465



the scant shade of an aged thorn, Silvered with age, and mossy with decay, I stood, and there bethought me of its mom Of verdant lustyhood, long passed away; Of its meridian vigour, now outworn By cankering years, and by the tempest's sway Bared to the pitying glebe.—Companionless, Stands the gray thorn complaining to the wind— Of all the old wood's leafy loveliness The sole memorial that lags behind; Its compeers perished in their youthfulness, Though round the earth their roots seem'd firmly twined: How sad it is to be so anchored here As to outlive one's mates, and die without a tear!