II.
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ike rock or stone, it is o’ergrownWith lichens to the very top,And hung with heavy tufts of moss,A melancholy crop:Up from the earth these mosses creep,And this poor thorn they clasp it roundSo close, you’d say that they were bentWith plain and manifest intent,To drag it to the ground;And all had joined in one endeavourTo bury this poor thorn for ever.
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