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The Thorn

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 prickly points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens is it overgrown.

II

'Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown,
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:

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poem by William Wordsworth
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The moss that loves the stone

It is the moss that loves the stone
Most. No matter what or when, the
Moss somehow manages to stay
Even without a why, they say.
But the moss keeps on sticking
To the body of the stone that
Keeps its nonminding stiffness.
It is cold, it is hard, it is unfeeling
At all. It is the moss that keeps its
Love. It sticks with it, rain or shine.
It rolls with it. It stays with it even
In the desert, even it if means its
Own death. It is the moss that sticks
To the stone. It is its true lover.
In the river, the water has ordered
The moss to leave. It ordered the stone
To crush it. The moss cannot be
Removed. It covered the stone.
It is loving it whole.The stone has
Become the moss, and the stone

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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To Gather Moss And More Of Moss

to gather moss
be a stone
to gather more moss
be a very still stone
be a stone still till the end
of time

you stand still and think
you want to be the moss
rather than a stone

to be all moss
you must betray the stillness
of stone
you must even forget
the importance of
what a moss can be

then you think some more
to be completely this moss

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Basil Moss

SING, mountain-wind, thy strong, superior song—
Thy haughty alpine anthem, over tracts
Whose passes and whose swift, rock-straitened streams
Catch mighty life and voice from thee, and make
A lordly harmony on sea-chafed heights.
Sing, mountain-wind, and take thine ancient tone,
The grand, austere, imperial utterance.
Which drives my soul before it back to days
In one dark hour of which, when Storm rode high
Past broken hills, and when the polar gale
Roared round the Otway with the bitter breath
That speaks for ever of the White South Land
Alone with God and Silence in the cold,
I heard the touching tale of Basil Moss,
A story shining with a woman’s love!
And who that knows that love can ever doubt
How dear, divine, sublime a thing it is;
For while the tale of Basil Moss was one
Not blackened with those stark, satanic sins
Which call for superhuman sacrifice,

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poem by Henry Kendall
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Spanish Moss

Let go darlin
I can feel the night wind call
Guess Id better go
I like you more than half as much
As I love your spanish moss
Spanish moss hangin down
Lofty as the southern love weve found
Spanish moss
Keeps on followin my thoughts around
Georgia pine and ripple wine
Memories of savannah summertime
Spanish moss
Wish you knew what I was sayin
So Im rollin north thinkin
Of the way things might have been
If she and I could have changed it all somehow
Spanish moss hangin down
Lofty as the sycamore youve found
Spanish moss
Keeps on followin my thoughts around

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song performed by Gordon Lightfoot
Added by Lucian Velea
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The River Flows

The river flows and moss grows
And I dangle my feet in the water
The water is cold, but so is my heart
As I sit and just watch time goes by

No place I have to go, no place to be
Time has passed too fast, as fast as the river flows
Who else has sat here and felt this way
Felt pain in their heart and soul

They don't understand, did they ever?
All the hurt down deep in my soul
The leaves sway with the wind
And the chill sets in

I know I must leave, I don't know where
Guess I'll find my way down the road
With tears in my eyes and a broken heart
I'll find my way back to somewhere

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poem by jJO CAREY
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Beneath The Moss

Entrenched at the back of my head
The moss got thicker
The moss got greener
And the moss got dense
Now it's a part of my natural landscape

They say it's sad
For the merchant of flowers that i used to be
But I love the way it never changes
Fixed and firm
With some wild flowers and fern

But one day
On its crust
Came across a scar
Deep like the ocean
And clear like the blue sky

Anxiously I peeped in for a while
Looked for some Enterprise

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poem by Falky Flakes
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The Magpie's Nest, Or A Lesson Of Docility

A FABLE

When the arts in their infancy were,
In a fable of old 'tis exprest,
A wise magpie constructed that rare
Little house for young birds, called a nest.

This was talked of the whole country round,
You might hear it on every bough sung,
'Now no longer upon the rough ground
Will fond mothers brood over their young.

'For the magpie with exquisite skill
Has invented a moss-covered cell,
Within which a whole family will
In the utmost security dwell.'

To her mate did each female bird say,
'Let us fly to the magpie, my dear;
If she will but teach us the way,

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poem by Charles Lamb
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The Sprig of Moss

There lived in Munich a poor, weakly youth,
But for the exact date, I cannot vouch for the truth,
And of seven of a family he was the elder,
Who was named, by his parents, Alois Senefelder.

But, poor fellow, at home his father was lying dead,
And his little brothers and sisters were depending upon him for bread,
And one evening he was dismissed from his employment,
Which put an end to all his peace and enjoyment.

The poor lad was almost mad, and the next day
His parent's remains to the cemetery were taken away;
And when his father was buried, distracted like he grew,
And he strolled through the streets crying, What shall I do!

And all night he wandered on sad and alone,
Until he began to think of returning home,
But, to his surprise, on raising his head to look around,
He was in a part of the country which to him was unknown ground.

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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Clover-Blossom

In a quiet, pleasant meadow,
Beneath a summer sky,
Where green old trees their branches waved,
And winds went singing by;
Where a little brook went rippling
So musically low,
And passing clouds cast shadows
On the waving grass below;
Where low, sweet notes of brooding birds
Stole out on the fragrant air,
And golden sunlight shone undimmed
On all most fresh and fair;--
There bloomed a lovely sisterhood
Of happy little flowers,
Together in this pleasant home,
Through quiet summer hours.
No rude hand came to gather them,
No chilling winds to blight;
Warm sunbeams smiled on them by day,
And soft dews fell at night.

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poem by Louisa May Alcott
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