The Soul's Delight

I have bled upon your thorns, O rose

For the way to your heart is bramble-strewn

But then such beauty, I suppose

May be likened to the inconstant moon.

I have known you as I have known the thorn

And the sweetness of a woman's breath,

Seen beauty from desire born

And heard her sigh at the time of death.

Though winter comse to strip you clean

Of all but barren thorn and stem

Apparelled in your dress of green

Spring shall return your diadem

But the eyes of children fire-bright

Will see in you the soul's delight.