Her clutching feet bepat the ground,
And all their harmless claws disclose
Like prickles of an early rose,
While softly from her whisker'd cheek
The half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.
Joanna Baillie.
20. The tall larch sighing in the burial place,
Or willow trailing low its boughs, to hide
The gleaming marble.
W. C. Bryant.