THORNS.

As we pass by the roses, Into your finger-tip Bruise you the thorn. Quick at the prick you start, Crying, "Alas, the smart! Farewell, my pleasant friend, Wisely our way we wend Out of the reach of roses."

Oh, we pass by the roses! Where does the red drop drip? Where is the thorn? What though 'tis hid and pressed Piercing into my breast? Scathless, I stretch my hand; Strong as their roots I stand, And dare to trust the roses.