  BARB’d blossom of the guarded gorse, I love thee where I see thee shine: Thou sweetener of our common ways, And brightener of our wintry days. Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead, Thou art undying, oh, be mine! Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest Close on a heart that asks not rest. I pluck thee, and thy stigma set Upon my breast and on my brow; Blow, buds, and ’plenish so my wreath That none may know the wounds beneath. O crown of thorn that seem’st of gold, No festal coronal art thou; Thy honey’d blossoms are but hives That guard the growth of wingÈd lives. I saw thee in the time of flowers As sunshine spill’d upon the land, Or burning bushes all ablaze With sacred fire; but went my ways. I went my ways, and as I went Pluck’d kindlier blooms on either hand; Now of those blooms so passing sweet None lives to stay my passing feet. And still thy lamp upon the hill Feeds on the autumn’s dying sigh, And from thy midst comes murmuring A music sweeter than in spring. Barb’d blossoms of the guarded gorse, Be mine to wear until I die, And mine the wounds of love which still Bear witness to his human will. |
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