I.

    t looks so old,

    In trut o say,

    could ever have been young,

    It looks so old and grey.

    Not wo-years child,

    It stands erect thorn;

    No leaves it s;

    It is a mass of knotted joints,

    A ching forlorn.

    It stands erect, and like a stone

    it is overgrown.

    II.

    Like rock or stone, it is oergrown

    ito top,

    And ufts of moss,

    A melancholy crop:

    Up from these mosses creep,

    And t round

    So close, youd say t t

    it intent,

    to drag it to the ground;

    And all had joined in one endeavour

    to bury thorn for ever.

    III.

    ains  ridge,

    tormy er gale

    Cuts like a scythe clouds

    It so vale;

    Not ?ve yards from tain-path,

    t espy;

    And to t, three yards beyond,

    You see a little muddy pond

    Of er, never dry;

    Ive measured it from side to side:

    tis t long, and t wide.

    IV.

    And close beside thorn,

    t,

    A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,

    Just  in .

    All lovely colours there you see,

    All colours t were ever seen,

    And mossy netoo is there,

    As if by hand of lady fair

    the work had woven been,

    And cups, the eye,

    So deep is their vermilion dye.

    V.

    A lovely tints are there!

    Of olive-green and scarlet bright,

    In spikes, in brancars,

    Green, red, and pearly we.

    th mos