William Wordsworth

Here you will find the Long Poem Thorn, The of poet William Wordsworth

Thorn, The


"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; 
It is a mass of knotted joints, 
A wretched thing forlorn. 
It stands erect, and like a stone 
With lichens is it overgrown. 


"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 are bent 
With plain and manifest intent 
To drag it to the ground; 
And all have 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 
Though but of compass small, and bare 
To thirsty suns and parching air. 


"And, close beside this aged Thorn, 
There is a fresh and lovely sight, 
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss, 
Just half a foot in height. 
All lovely colours there you see, 
All colours that were ever seen; 
And mossy network too is there, 
As if by hand of lady fair 
The work had woven been; 
And cups, the darlings of the eye, 
So deep is their vermilion dye. 


"Ah me! what lovely tints are there 
Of olive green and scarlet bright, 
In spikes, in branches, and in stars, 
Green, red, and pearly white! 
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss, 
Which close beside the Thorn you see, 
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes, 
Is like an infant's grave in size, 
As like as like can be: 
But never, never any where, 
An infant's grave was half so fair. 


"Now would you see this aged Thorn, 
This pond, and beauteous hill of moss, 
You must take care and choose your time 
The mountain when to cross. 
For oft there sits between the heap 
So 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!' 


"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 daylight'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!'" 


"Now wherefore, thus, by day and night, 
In rain, in tempest, and in snow, 
Thus to the dreary mountain-top 
Does this poor Woman go? 
And why sits she beside the Thorn 
When the blue daylight's in the sky 
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, 
Or frosty air is keen and still, 
And wherefore does she cry?-- 
O wherefore? wherefore? tell me why 
Does she repeat that doleful cry?" 


"I cannot tell; I wish I could; 
For the true reason no one knows: 
But would you gladly view the spot, 
The spot to which she goes; 
The hillock like an infant's grave, 
The pond--and Thorn, so old and grey; 
Pass by her door--'tis seldom shut-- 
And, if you see her in her hut-- 
Then to the spot away! 
I never heard of such as dare 
Approach the spot when she is there." 


"But wherefore to the mountain-top 
Can this unhappy Woman go? 
Whatever star is in the skies, 
Whatever wind may blow?" 
"Full twenty years are past and gone 
Since she (her name is Martha Ray) 
Gave with a maiden's true good-will 
Her company to Stephen Hill; 
And she was blithe and gay, 
While friends and kindred all approved 
Of him whom tenderly she loved. 


"And they had fixed the wedding day, 
The morning that must wed them both; 
But Stephen to another Maid 
Had sworn another oath; 
And, with this other Maid, to church 
Unthinking Stephen went-- 
Poor Martha! on that woeful day 
A pang of pitiless dismay 
Into her soul was sent; 
A fire was kindled in her breast, 
Which might not burn itself to rest. 


"They say, full six months after this, 
While yet the summer leaves were green, 
She to the mountain-top would go, 
And there was often seen. 
What could she seek?--or wish to hide? 
Her state to any eye was plain; 
She was with child, and she was mad; 
Yet often was she sober sad 
From her exceeding pain. 
O guilty Father--would that death