A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs,
Which, crook’d into a thousand whimsies, clasp
The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.
Thine arms have left thee—winds have rent them off
Long since; and rovers of the forest wild
With bow and shaft have burnt them. Some have left
A splinter’d stump, bleach’d to a snowy white;
And some, memorial none where once they grew.
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth
Proof not contemptible of what she can,