Poems (David)/The Rose

by Edith Mary David

For works with similar titles, see The Rose.

THE ROSE.

IS there a rose which hath no thorn
 The ruthless hand, alas! to wound?
Or evil thought that e'er was born
 But stamped its nameless terrors soon?

And so each sin, in tempting guise
 To sorrow swift alone leads on;
Its mild alluring form belies
 The sharp and hidden thorns beyond!

The rose she is a subtle queen,
 Her courtly bower with evil filled;
Though her gay leaves spring fresh and green,
 They own, alas! no generous will.

And so sin blithely leads us on
 Along a smooth and flowering way!
We start to find our hope is gone
 Amidst the darkness and decay!

Deceitful world! thy pleasures are
 But as the vain and crumbling dust;
Oh'! where the form on earth or star,
 The human heart can simply trust!