The Garden
Pluck a rose out of the garden,
From the bush, where it started,
And with springly, naive handling,
Prick a finger on a thorn—
Banish rose back to the garden!
Under soil, blessed departed!
Watch blood run as wine in company,
From the hole deceit hath bore—
Suck the blood! Feel thy heart harden!
That lovely mass casted in iron!
Pinch the prick! Feel trust here never more!
An oozing wound sutured with scorn!
Curse the evils of the garden,
Yet do proffer saintly pardon,
To the rose and all its treachery,
And pluck, pluck another more—