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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540177" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Thorn</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'There is a Thorn--it looks so old, <br>In truth, you'd find it hard to say <br>How it could ever have been young, <br>It looks so old and grey. <br>Not higher than a two years' child <br>It stands erect, this aged Thorn; <br>No leaves it has, no prickly points; <br>It is a mass of knotted joints, <br>A wretched thing forlorn. <br>It stands erect, and like a stone <br>With lichens is it overgrown. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">II </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, <br>With lichens to the very top, <br>And hung with heavy tufts of moss, <br>A melancholy crop: <br>Up from the earth these mosses creep, <br>And this poor Thorn they clasp it round <br>So close, you'd say that they are bent <br>With plain and manifest intent <br>To drag it to the ground; <br>And all have joined in one endeavour <br>To bury this poor Thorn for ever. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">III </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'High on a mountain's highest ridge, <br>Where oft the stormy winter gale <br>Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds <br>It sweeps from vale to vale; <br>Not five yards from the mountain path, <br>This Thorn you on your left espy; <br>And to the left, three yards beyond, <br>You see a little muddy pond <br>Of water--never dry <br>Though but of compass small, and bare <br>To thirsty suns and parching air. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And, close beside this aged Thorn, <br>There is a fresh and lovely sight, <br>A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, <br>Just half a foot in height. <br>All lovely colours there you see, <br>All colours that were ever seen; <br>And mossy network too is there, <br>As if by hand of lady fair <br>The work had woven been; <br>And cups, the darlings of the eye, <br>So deep is their vermilion dye. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">V </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Ah me! what lovely tints are there <br>Of olive green and scarlet bright, <br>In spikes, in branches, and in stars, <br>Green, red, and pearly white! <br>This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, <br>Which close beside the Thorn you see, <br>So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, <br>Is like an infant's grave in size, <br>As like as like can be: <br>But never, never any where, <br>An infant's grave was half so fair. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Now would you see this aged Thorn, <br>This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, <br>You must take care and choose your time <br>The mountain when to cross. <br>For oft there sits between the heap <br>So like an infant's grave in size, <br>And that same pond of which I spoke, <br>A Woman in a scarlet cloak, <br>And to herself she cries, <br>'Oh misery! oh misery! <br>Oh woe is me! oh misery!' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VII </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'At all times of the day and night <br>This wretched Woman thither goes; <br>And she is known to every star, <br>And every wind that blows; <br>And there, beside the Thorn, she sits <br>When the blue daylight's in the skies, <br>And when the whirlwind's on the hill, <br>Or frosty air is keen and still, <br>And to herself she cries, <br>'Oh misery! oh misery! <br>Oh woe is me! oh misery!'' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">VIII </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, <br>In rain, in tempest, and in snow, <br>Thus to the dreary mountain-top <br>Does this poor Woman go? <br>And why sits she beside the Thorn <br>When the blue daylight's in the sky <br>Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, <br>Or frosty air is keen and still, <br>And wherefore does she cry?-- <br>O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why <br>Does she repeat that doleful cry?' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">IX </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I cannot tell; I wish I could; <br>For the true reason no one knows: <br>But would you gladly view the spot, <br>The spot to which she goes; <br>The hillock like an infant's grave, <br>The pond--and Thorn, so old and grey; <br>Pass by her door--'tis seldom shut-- <br>And, if you see her in her hut-- <br>Then to the spot away! <br>I never heard of such as dare <br>Approach the spot when she is there.' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">X </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But wherefore to the mountain-top <br>Can this unhappy Woman go? <br>Whatever star is in the skies, <br>Whatever wind may blow?' <br>'Full twenty years are past and gone <br>Since she (her name is Martha Ray) <br>Gave with a maiden's true good-will <br>Her company to Stephen Hill; <br>And she was blithe and gay, <br>While friends and kindred all approved <br>Of him whom tenderly she loved. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XI </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And they had fixed the wedding day, <br>The morning that must wed them both; <br>But Stephen to another Maid <br>Had sworn another oath; <br>And, with this other Maid, to church <br>Unthinking Stephen went-- <br>Poor Martha! on that woeful day <br>A pang of pitiless dismay <br>Into her soul was sent; <br>A fire was kindled in her breast, <br>Which might not burn itself to rest. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XII </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'They say, full six months after this, <br>While yet the summer leaves were green, <br>She to the mountain-top would go, <br>And there was often seen. <br>What could she seek?--or wish to hide? <br>Her state to any eye was plain; <br>She was with child, and she was mad; <br>Yet often was she sober sad <br>From her exceeding pain. <br>O guilty Father--would that death <br>Had saved him from that breach of faith! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIII </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sad case for such a brain to hold <br>Communion with a stirring child! <br>Sad case, as you may think, for one <br>Who had a brain so wild! <br>Last Christmas-eve we talked of this, <br>And grey-haired Wilfred of the glen <br>Held that the unborn infant wrought <br>About its mother's heart, and brought <br>Her senses back again: <br>And, when at last her time drew near, <br>Her looks were calm, her senses clear. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIV </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'More know I not, I wish I did, <br>And it should all be told to you; <br>For what became of this poor child <br>No mortal ever knew; <br>Nay--if a child to her was born <br>No earthly tongue could ever tell; <br>And if 'twas born alive or dead, <br>Far less could this with proof be said; <br>But some remember well, <br>That Martha Ray about this time <br>Would up the mountain often climb. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XV </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And all that winter, when at night <br>The wind blew from the mountain-peak, <br>'Twas worth your while, though in the dark, <br>The churchyard path to seek: <br>For many a time and oft were heard <br>Cries coming from the mountain head: <br>Some plainly living voices were; <br>And others, I've heard many swear, <br>Were voices of the dead: <br>I cannot think, whate'er they say, <br>They had to do with Martha Ray. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVI </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But that she goes to this old Thorn, <br>The Thorn which I described to you, <br>And there sits in a scarlet cloak <br>I will be sworn is true. <br>For one day with my telescope, <br>To view the ocean wide and bright, <br>When to this country first I came, <br>Ere I had heard of Martha's name, <br>I climbed the mountain's height:-- <br>A storm came on, and I could see <br>No object higher than my knee. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVII </div><div style="margin:10px 0">''Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain: <br>No screen, no fence could I discover; <br>And then the wind! in sooth, it was <br>A wind full ten times over. <br>I looked around, I thought I saw <br>A jutting crag,--and off I ran, <br>Head-foremost, through the driving rain, <br>The shelter of the crag to gain; <br>And, as I am a man, <br>Instead of jutting crag, I found <br>A Woman seated on the ground. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XVIII </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I did not speak--I saw her face; <br>Her face!--it was enough for me; <br>I turned about and heard her cry, <br>'Oh misery! oh misery!' <br>And there she sits, until the moon <br>Through half the clear blue sky will go; <br>And, when the little breezes make <br>The waters of the pond to shake, <br>As all the country know, <br>She shudders, and you hear her cry, <br>'Oh misery! oh misery!'' </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XIX </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'But what's the Thorn? and what the pond? <br>And what the hill of moss to her? <br>And what the creeping breeze that comes <br>The little pond to stir?' <br>'I cannot tell; but some will say <br>She hanged her baby on the tree; <br>Some say she drowned it in the pond, <br>Which is a little step beyond: <br>But all and each agree, <br>The little Babe was buried there, <br>Beneath that hill of moss so fair. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XX </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I've heard, the moss is spotted red <br>With drops of that poor infant's blood; <br>But kill a new-born infant thus, <br>I do not think she could! <br>Some say, if to the pond you go, <br>And fix on it a steady view, <br>The shadow of a babe you trace, <br>A baby and a baby's face, <br>And that it looks at you; <br>Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain <br>The baby looks at you again. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXI </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'And some had sworn an oath that she <br>Should be to public justice brought; <br>And for the little infant's bones <br>With spades they would have sought. <br>But instantly the hill of moss <br>Before their eyes began to stir! <br>And, for full fifty yards around, <br>The grass--it shook upon the ground! <br>Yet all do still aver <br>The little Babe lies buried there, <br>Beneath that hill of moss so fair. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">XXII </div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I cannot tell how this may be, <br>But plain it is the Thorn is bound <br>With heavy tufts of moss that strive <br>To drag it to the ground; <br>And this I know, full many a time, <br>When she was on the mountain high, <br>By day, and in the silent night, <br>When all the stars shone clear and bright, <br>That I have heard her cry, <br>'Oh misery! oh misery! <br>Oh woe is me! oh misery!''</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=William+Wordsworth">William Wordsworth</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=540177" data-title="The Thorn de William Wordsworth" data-description="I 

'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 erect, this aged Thorn; 
No leaves it has, no prickly points..."></div>
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