ROSES have thorns, and love is thorny too;
And this is love’s sharp thorn which guards its flower,
That our beloved have the cruel power
To hurt us deeper than all others do.
The heart attuned to our heart like a charm,
Beat answering beat, as echo answers song,
If the throb falter, or the pulse beat wrong,
How shall it fail to grieve us or to harm?
The taunt which, uttered by a stranger’s lips,
Scarce heard, scarce minded, passed us like the wind,
Breathed by a dear voice, which has grown unkind,
Turns sweet to bitter, sunshine to eclipse.
The instinct of a change we cannot prove,
The pitiful tenderness, the sad too-much,
The sad too-little, shown in look or touch,—
All these are wounding thorns of thorny love.
Ah, sweetest rose which earthly gardens bear,
Fought for, desired, life’s guerdon and life’s end,
Although your thorns may slay and wound and rend,
Still men must snatch you; for you are so fair.