No More Learning

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[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. ]


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'The Thorn' was always placed among the "Poems of the Imagination. "--Ed.



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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]


IV "And, close beside this aged Thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight, 35
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, 40
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.


V "Ah me! what lovely tints are there 45
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, 50
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. 55


VI "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 60
So like [6] 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! 65
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; 70
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, 75
'Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!