THE THORN.
| “Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn, But this has none, I know.” She clasped my rival’s Rose Over her breast of snow. I bowed to hide my pain, With a man’s unskilful art; I moved my lips, and could not say The Thorn was in my heart! |
| “Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn, But this has none, I know.” She clasped my rival’s Rose Over her breast of snow. I bowed to hide my pain, With a man’s unskilful art; I moved my lips, and could not say The Thorn was in my heart! |