And this is love’s sharp thorn which guards its flower,
That our beloved have the cruel power
To hurt us deeper than all others do.
The heart attuned to our heart like a charm,
Beat answering beat, as echo answers song,
If the throb falter, or the pulse beat wrong,
How shall it fail to grieve us or to harm?
The taunt which, uttered by a stranger’s lips,
Scarce heard, scarce minded, passed us like the wind,
Breathed by a dear voice, which has grown unkind,