The Pacific Monthly/Volume 1/Thorns

by Florence May Wright

Thorns.

It lies in my hand,
A dead, dead rose;
Not lovely now, but it once was fair.
No sweets are shed
From its petals dead,
But its thorns are sharp as ever they were.


It lies in my heart,
A dead, dead love;
Nor hope, nor happiness brings to me,
A faded flower,
It has lived its hour;
But its thorns are sharp as they used to be.

Florence May Wright