The Thistle
In a patch of baked earth
At the crumbled cliff’s brink,
Where the parching of August
Has cracked a long chink,
Against the blue void
Of still sea and sky
Stands single a thistle,
Tall, tarnished, and dry.
Frayed leaves, spotted brown,
Head hoary and torn,
Was ever a weed
Upon earth so forlorn,
So solemnly gazed on
By the sun in his sheen
That prints in long shadow
Its raggedness lean?
From the sky comes no laughter,
From earth not a moan.
Erect stands the thistle,
Its seeds abroad blown.
