The Thorn by William Wordsworth (Poem, Summary, Paraphrase & Analysis)

 

The Thorn

by William Wordsworth

(Poem, Summary, Paraphrase & Analysis) 

The Thorn

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 is it overgrown.

 

Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown

With 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 round

So close, you’d say that they were bent

With plain and manifest intent

To drag it to the ground;

And all had joined in one endeavour

To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

 

High on a mountain’s highest ridge,

Where oft the stormy winter gale

Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds

It sweeps from vale to vale;

Not five yards from the mountain-path,

This Thorn you on your left espy;

And to the left, three yards beyond,

You see a little muddy pond

Of water—never dry

Though but of compass small, and bare

To thirsty suns and parching air.

 

And close beside this aged Thorn,

There is a fresh and lovely sight—

A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,

Just half a foot in height.

All lovely colours there you see,

All colours that were ever seen;

And mossy network too is there,

As if by hand of lady fair

The work had woven been;

And cups, the darlings of the eye,

So deep is their vermilion dye.

 

Ah me! what lovely tints are there

Of olive green and scarlet bright,

In spikes, in branches, and in stars,

Green, red, and pearly white.

This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss

Which close beside the Thorn you see,

So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,

Is like an infant’s grave in size,

As like as like can be:

But never, never anywhere

An infant’s grave was half so fair.

 

Now would you see this aged Thorn,

This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,

You must take care and choose your time

The mountain when to cross.

For oft there sits, between the heap

So like an infant’s grave in size,

And that same pond of which I spoke,

A woman in a scarlet cloak,

And to herself she cries,

“Oh misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

 

At all times of the day and night

This wretched woman thither goes;

And she is known to every star,

And every wind that blows;

And there, beside the Thorn, she sits,

When the blue daylight’s in the skies,

And when the whirlwind’s on the hill,

Or frosty air is keen and still,

And to herself she cries,

“Oh misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

 

“Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,

In rain, in tempest, and in snow,

Thus to the dreary mountain-top

Does this poor woman go?

And why sits she beside the Thorn

When the blue daylight’s in the sky,

Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill,

Or frosty air is keen and still,

And wherefore does she cry?—

Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why

Does she repeat that doleful cry?”

 

I cannot tell; I wish I could;

For the true reason no one knows:

But if you’d gladly view the spot,

The spot to which she goes;

The heap that’s like an infant’s grave,

The pond—and Thorn, so old and grey;

Pass by her door—’tis seldom shut—

And if you see her in her hut,

Then to the spot away!

I never heard of such as dare

Approach the spot when she is there.

 

“But wherefore to the mountain-top

Can this unhappy woman go,

Whatever star is in the skies,

Whatever wind may blow?”

Nay, rack your brain—’tis all in vain,

I’ll tell you everything I know;

But to the Thorn, and to the pond

Which is a little step beyond,

I wish that you would go:

Perhaps when you are at the place

You something of her tale may trace.

 

I’ve heard the moss is spotted red

With drops of that poor woman’s blood;

But why that to the Thorn she goes,

And why it grows so tall,

And why the hole is half-way up,

And why it is so grey with age—

I cannot tell; but some will say

She hanged her baby on the tree,

Some say she drowned it in the pond,

Which is a little step beyond;

But all and each agree,

The little babe was buried there,

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

 

I’ve seen her wringing of her hands

And I’ve heard her cry, “Oh misery!”

Oh misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!

 

Summary

The poem opens with a vivid description of an old, gnarled thorn tree that looks ancient and withered. It is small and leafless, covered in lichens and moss, standing alone on a high ridge of a mountain. This decayed thorn appears almost lifeless, as if nature itself is trying to bury it under moss and time.

Beside the Thorn, just a few steps away, is a small, muddy pond that never dries, no matter the weather. Nearby, there is also a beautiful little mound covered with moss of various colors—scarlet, green, white, and pearly hues. This mossy hill is quite small, about the size of an infant’s grave, and is so delicately formed that it looks as though it were made by a lady’s hands. The narrator emphasizes its unusual beauty and suggests a possible connection between the mound and a tragic story.

The poem then introduces a mysterious woman who is often seen sitting beside the Thorn and the mossy mound. She wears a red cloak and is frequently heard crying out, “Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!” She visits the spot in all kinds of weather—day or night, rain or snow, sunshine or storm. She seems to have a deep and painful attachment to the place.

The narrator recounts that he, like others, has often wondered why she comes there and what sorrow drives her to wail by the Thorn. Though many have seen her, no one knows her full story. People speculate about her suffering, and some believe she once had a baby—either lost, buried, or killed. Rumors say she might have hanged the child on the Thorn or drowned it in the nearby pond. Others say the child is buried beneath the mossy mound.

The narrator claims not to know the truth but has heard many versions of the tale. He encourages the reader to visit the place, noting that perhaps standing there might help one grasp the meaning behind the woman’s grief. However, he also mentions that no one dares approach the site when the woman is present, out of fear or reverence for her sorrow.

The poem ends with the image of the woman in her habitual mourning, wringing her hands and crying her familiar words of grief and despair, leaving readers with a haunting picture of unresolved sorrow and mystery.

 

Line-by-line Paraphrase

There is a Thorn—it looks so old,

 There’s a thorn bush that appears ancient,

In truth, you’d find it hard to say

 Honestly, you wouldn’t be able to tell

How it could ever have been young,

 That it was ever young at all,

It looks so old and grey.

 It looks so aged and gray with time.

 

Not higher than a two-years’ child

 It’s only as tall as a toddler,

It stands erect, this aged Thorn;

 Yet it still stands upright despite its age.

No leaves it has, no thorny points;

 It has neither leaves nor sharp thorns left.

It is a mass of knotted joints,

 Its branches are twisted and gnarled,

A wretched thing forlorn.

 It’s a pitiful and lonely sight.

It stands erect, and like a stone

 It stands stiffly, like a stone,

With lichens is it overgrown.

 Completely covered in pale, crusty moss.

 

Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown

 Just like a rock, it’s overrun

With lichens to the very top,

 With lichens covering it from bottom to top,

And hung with heavy tufts of moss,

 And draped with thick bunches of moss,

A melancholy crop:

 Making it look sad and lifeless.

Up from the earth these mosses creep,

 The mosses grow upward from the ground,

And this poor Thorn they clasp it round

 They cling tightly to the thorn,

So close, you’d say that they were bent

 So tightly that you’d think they intended

With plain and manifest intent

 Obviously and deliberately

To drag it to the ground;

 To pull the old bush down,

And all had joined in one endeavour

 As if everything around it was trying

To bury this poor Thorn for ever.

 To bury this lonely Thorn forever.

 

High on a mountain’s highest ridge,

 This Thorn grows on the top ridge of a mountain,

Where oft the stormy winter gale

 Where fierce winter winds often blow,

Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds

 Sharp as a scythe, cutting through the clouds,

It sweeps from vale to vale;

 And roars from one valley to another;

Not five yards from the mountain-path,

 Just five yards from the mountain trail,

This Thorn you on your left espy;

 You’ll see the Thorn on your left-hand side;

And to the left, three yards beyond,

 And just three more yards beyond that,

You see a little muddy pond

 There is a small, murky pond

Of water—never dry

 Filled with water that never dries up,

Though but of compass small, and bare

 Though it’s tiny and exposed,

To thirsty suns and parching air.

 To the heat of the sun and dry winds.

 

And close beside this aged Thorn,

 Near the old Thorn,

There is a fresh and lovely sight—

 There is something beautiful to see—

A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,

 A small, lovely mound covered with moss,

Just half a foot in height.

 It rises only about six inches.

All lovely colours there you see,

 You can see beautiful colours there,

All colours that were ever seen;

 Every colour imaginable.

And mossy network too is there,

 There’s also a delicate, net-like moss,

As if by hand of lady fair

 As if a fine lady had crafted it

The work had woven been;

 Like delicate handwoven fabric;

And cups, the darlings of the eye,

 And little mossy cups that delight the eye,

So deep is their vermilion dye.

 Their red colour is so rich and deep.

 

Ah me! what lovely tints are there

 Oh, how beautiful the colours are!

Of olive green and scarlet bright,

 Shades of olive green and bright red,

In spikes, in branches, and in stars,

 In the form of spikes, small branches, and star-shapes,

Green, red, and pearly white.

 In green, red, and creamy white.

This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss

 This little mound covered in moss

Which close beside the Thorn you see,

 That’s right beside the Thorn,

So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,

 Looks so new and vividly coloured,

Is like an infant’s grave in size,

 It is the same size as a baby’s grave,

As like as like can be:

 Almost identical in appearance.

But never, never anywhere

 Yet nowhere else

An infant’s grave was half so fair.

 Has a baby’s grave looked so beautiful.

Now would you see this aged Thorn,

 If you want to look at this old Thorn,

This pond, and beauteous hill of moss,

 And the pond and the lovely mossy mound,

You must take care and choose your time

 You must be careful about when you go,

The mountain when to cross.

 And choose the right time to visit the mountain.

 

For oft there sits, between the heap

 Because very often, between the mossy mound

So like an infant’s grave in size,

 (Which looks so much like a child’s grave),

And that same pond of which I spoke,

 And the same pond I mentioned earlier,

A woman in a scarlet cloak,

 A woman wearing a red cloak sits,

And to herself she cries,

 And she cries out to herself,

“Oh misery! oh misery!

 “Oh misery! Oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

 Oh, what sorrow! Oh misery!”

 

At all times of the day and night

 She comes there at all hours, day and night,

This wretched woman thither goes;

 This poor, suffering woman goes to that place;

And she is known to every star,

 Every star in the sky seems to know her,

And every wind that blows;

 And so does every breeze that passes by;

And there, beside the Thorn, she sits,

 And she sits there next to the Thorn,

When the blue daylight’s in the skies,

 Whether it’s bright daylight,

And when the whirlwind’s on the hill,

 Or when a storm is raging on the hill,

Or frosty air is keen and still,

 Or when the air is still and cold,

And to herself she cries,

 She continues to cry out alone,

“Oh misery! oh misery!

 “Oh misery! Oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

 Oh, what grief! Oh misery!”

 

“Now wherefore, thus, by day and night,

 Why is it that, day and night,

In rain, in tempest, and in snow,

 In the rain, storms, and snow,

Thus to the dreary mountain-top

 She keeps coming to this bleak mountain,

Does this poor woman go?

 Why does this poor woman go there?

 

And why sits she beside the Thorn

 And why does she sit next to that Thorn,

When the blue daylight’s in the sky,

 Even in broad daylight,

Or when the whirlwind’s on the hill,

 Or when there’s a violent wind on the hill,

Or frosty air is keen and still,

 Or when the cold air is still and sharp,

And wherefore does she cry?—

 And why does she keep crying?—

Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why

 Oh why? Tell me, why

Does she repeat that doleful cry?”

 Does she repeat that sad and painful cry?”

 

I cannot tell; I wish I could;

 I don’t know; I truly wish I did;

For the true reason no one knows:

 No one really knows the actual reason:

But if you’d gladly view the spot,

 But if you want to see the place yourself,

The spot to which she goes;

 The place where she always goes;

The heap that’s like an infant’s grave,

 That little mound that looks like a baby’s grave,

The pond—and Thorn, so old and grey;

 The pond and the old, grey Thorn;

Pass by her door—’tis seldom shut—

 Walk past her house—it’s usually open—

And if you see her in her hut,

 And if she’s inside when you pass,

Then to the spot away!

 Then go ahead and visit the spot!

I never heard of such as dare

 But I’ve never heard of anyone bold enough

Approach the spot when she is there.

 To go near that place when she is present.

“But wherefore to the mountain-top

 But why does she go to the mountain top

Can this unhappy woman go,

 This miserable, sorrowful woman?

Whatever star is in the skies,

 No matter what star is shining,

Whatever wind may blow?”

 Or whatever kind of wind is blowing?”

 

Nay, rack your brain—’tis all in vain,

 Don’t bother overthinking—it’s no use,

I’ll tell you everything I know;

 I’ll just tell you all that I know;

But to the Thorn, and to the pond

 About the Thorn and the nearby pond

Which is a little step beyond,

 (Just a few steps beyond the Thorn),

I wish that you would go:

 I truly wish you would go see it for yourself:

Perhaps when you are at the place

 Maybe when you’re standing there,

You something of her tale may trace.

 You might pick up a clue about her sad story.

 

I’ve heard the moss is spotted red

 I’ve heard people say the moss is stained red

With drops of that poor woman’s blood;

 With drops of blood from that unfortunate woman;

But why that to the Thorn she goes,

 But why she always visits the Thorn,

And why it grows so tall,

 And why it grew so tall,

And why the hole is half-way up,

 And why there’s a hole halfway up its trunk,

And why it is so grey with age—

 And why it looks so old and grey—

I cannot tell; but some will say

 I can’t explain, but some people say

She hanged her baby on the tree,

 She hung her baby on that tree,

Some say she drowned it in the pond,

 Others claim she drowned it in the pond,

Which is a little step beyond;

 That lies just a few steps away;

But all and each agree,

 But everyone agrees on one thing,

The little babe was buried there,

 That the baby was buried at that spot,

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

 Under that beautiful mound of moss.

 

I’ve seen her wringing of her hands

 I’ve seen her twisting and wringing her hands in grief

And I’ve heard her cry, “Oh misery!”

 And I’ve heard her cry out, “Oh misery!”

Oh misery! oh misery!

 “Oh misery! Oh misery!”

Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

 “Alas! Woe is me! Oh misery!”

 

Analysis in Detail

William Wordsworth’s poem The Thorn, first published in the 1798 edition of Lyrical Ballads, is a haunting narrative poem that blends nature, folklore, and human suffering into a mysterious and emotionally charged tale. With its ballad-like rhythm and use of repetition, the poem invites the reader into an eerie mountain setting where a woman’s sorrow has become legend. The poem explores themes such as grief, isolation, madness, and the impenetrable mystery of human suffering, all grounded in the Romantic tradition of blending the natural world with intense personal emotion.

At the center of the poem is an old, knotted thorn bush, standing on a mountain ridge, weathered and worn by time. It is described with great detail: twisted, leafless, covered in lichens and moss, seemingly trying to return to the earth. This powerful personification of the Thorn sets the tone for the entire poem—it is a natural object that appears to hold and reflect sorrow. It is not merely a bush, but a symbol of age, decay, and hidden tragedy.

Beside the Thorn is a small muddy pond and a delicate mound of moss, unusually vibrant and colorful, described almost lovingly. The narrator compares it to an infant’s grave—not only in size, but in its serene beauty. This innocent and beautiful mound becomes a focal point of the mystery. Why is it so lovingly described? Why is it associated with death?

Then enters the mysterious woman in the red cloak. She is seen repeatedly visiting the spot, regardless of weather or time of day, sitting beside the Thorn and the mossy mound, crying out in anguish: “Oh misery! oh misery! Oh woe is me! oh misery!” Her cry echoes throughout the poem and adds an emotional refrain that intensifies the feeling of despair and instability. Her presence is ghost-like and obsessive; she is both part of the landscape and apart from it—a figure people fear and pity.

The narrator, whose voice alternates between curious, sympathetic, and slightly superstitious, admits that he does not fully know her story. He shares local rumors: some say the woman had a baby and killed it, either by hanging it on the Thorn or drowning it in the pond. Others believe she buried it beneath the mossy mound. But no one knows for sure. The woman’s grief is real and palpable, but the exact cause remains uncertain, and Wordsworth deliberately leaves it unresolved.

This ambiguity is central to the poem. The Thorn doesn’t give clear answers—it explores the experience of sorrow rather than explaining its origin. In doing so, it mirrors the Romantic belief that emotion and intuition hold as much weight as rational understanding. The narrator himself is unsure, and he invites the reader to go see the place for themselves—as if even language fails to fully convey the depth of the woman’s suffering or the truth of what happened.

Stylistically, the poem blends storytelling with lyricism. It is structured in ballad stanzas, with regular rhymes and a rhythm that alternates between steady narration and the musical, mournful cry of the woman. Wordsworth uses repetition throughout—not only of lines but of entire refrains. This repetition mimics obsession and deepens the tragic mood. The language is often plain, but occasionally dips into rich, descriptive imagery, especially when describing the moss and the landscape. Nature is not a passive backdrop in this poem—it is alive, responsive, and symbolic.

One of the most striking elements of The Thorn is how it reflects the Romantic ideal of nature mirroring human emotion. The thorn bush, the mound, the pond, the wind, and the moss all seem infused with the woman’s grief. Nature does not judge her; it holds her sorrow, echoes her cry, and perhaps even helps keep her story alive. The poem suggests that landscapes can absorb and reflect human trauma, turning ordinary places into sacred or haunted ground.

Moreover, Wordsworth engages with the theme of madness in a sympathetic and non-judgmental way. The woman is viewed by others as mad, but the poem never ridicules or condemns her. Instead, it highlights her isolation, her constancy, and the intensity of her pain. Her madness, if it is madness, seems to be the product of great loss—a loss the poem respects even as it remains unknowable.

In conclusion, The Thorn is a powerful exploration of mystery, grief, and the relationship between humanity and the natural world. It resists easy explanation, focusing instead on atmosphere, emotion, and the lingering effects of unspoken tragedy. Wordsworth does not give his readers a clear moral or lesson—instead, he presents them with an evocative scene of sorrow and lets them experience it for themselves. In doing so, he fulfills the Romantic aim of stirring deep feeling and reflection, using nature not just as setting, but as a silent witness to the mysteries of the human heart.