BENEATH the scant shade of an aged thorn, Silvered with age, and mossy with decay, I stood, and there bethought me of its morn Of verdant lustyhood, long passed away; Of its meridian vigour, now outworn By cankering years, and by the tempest's sway Bared to the pitying glebe. -- Companionless, Stands the gray thorn complaining to the wind -- Of all the old wood's leafy loveliness The sole memorial that lags behind; Its compeers perished in their youthfulness, Though round the earth their roots seem'd firmly twined: How sad it is to be so anchored here As to outlive one's mates, and die without a tear! |