Thistle and darnel and dock grew there,
   And  a bush, in the corner, of may,
On the orchard wall I used to sprawl,
   In the blazing heat of the day;
Half asleep and half awake,
   While the birds went twittering by,
And nobody there my line to share
   But Nicholas Nye.
Nicholas Nye was lean and grey,
   Lame of a leg and old,
More than a score of donkey's years
   He had seen since he was foaled;
He munched the thistles, purple and spiked,
   Would sometimes stoop and sigh,
And turn his head, as if he said,
   'Poor Nicholas Nye!"

~ Walter De La Mare,  Nicholas Nye (April 25, 1873 - June 22, 1956) English poet, novelist.