[Alfoxden, 1798. Arose out of my observing, on the ridge of Quantock Hill, on a stormy day, a thorn, which I had often past in calm and bright weather, without noticing it. I said to myself, "Cannot I by some invention do as much to make this Thorn permanently as an impressive object as the storm has made it to my eyes at this moment?" I began the poem accordingly, and composed it with great rapidity. Sir George Beaumont painted a picture from it, which Wilkie thought his best. He gave it me: though when he saw it several times at Rydal Mount afterwards, he said, 'I could make a better, and would like to paint the same subject over again.' The sky in this picture is nobly done, but it reminds one too much of Wilson. The only fault, however, of any consequence is the female figure, which is too old and decrepit for one likely to frequent an eminence on such a call.--I. F.] * * * * * 'The Thorn' was always placed among the "Poems of the Imagination."--Ed. * * * * * THE POEM 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 5 It stands erect, this aged Thorn; No leaves it has, no prickly [1] points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone 10 With lichens is it overgrown. [2] II "Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown, With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: 15 Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor Thorn they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they are [3] bent With plain and manifest intent To drag it to the ground; 20 And all have [4] joined in one endeavour To bury this poor Thorn for ever. III "High on a mountain's highest ridge, Where oft the stormy winter gale Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds 25 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 30 Of water--never dry Though but of compass small, and bare To thirsty suns and parching air. [5] [A]