---

Robert Laurence Binyon - The Thistle
Work rating: Low

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.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.