John Russell
Black Thorn to the Rose
Black thorn to the rose
Blood drawn in the taking.
Who knows
But the crimson flood
Petals the flower with its slaking.
Slim pain with the flower ;
A new stain with each gifting
Taints sour
The tranquil dew,
Mock pure on each flower's lifting.
Deep red in the bloom,
Colour bled by denying.
No tomb
But the bitter pallor
Follows the crimson of dying.
No thorn to the rose
Breaks torn petals down.
Who knows
But some hand takes
The black thorns for a crown.
Page(s) 4
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