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There is a thorn.; it looks so old, In truth you'd find it hard to say, How it could ever have been young, It looks-so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child It stands ere&t this aged thorn ; No leaves it has, no thorny points ; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. ' It stands erect, and like a stone . With lichens it is overgrown.
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
High on a mountain's highest ridge,
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 I've measured it from side to side : 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.
And close beside this aged thorn,
VI. . .
That's like an infant's grave in size And that same pond of which I spoke, A woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, “ Oh misery ! oh misery! “Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
VII. At all times of the day and night This wretched woman thither goes, And she is known to every star, And every wind that blows; And there beside the thorn she sits When the blue day-light's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries, “ Oh misery! oh misery! « Oh woe is me! oh misery;"