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, It stands erect this aged thorn; No leaves it has, no thorny points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown.