Turns sweet to bitter, sunshine to eclipse.
The instinct of a change we cannot prove,
The pitiful tenderness, the sad too-much,
The sad too-little, shown in look or touch,—
All these are wounding thorns of thorny love.
Ah, sweetest rose which earthly gardens bear,
Fought for, desired, life’s guerdon and life’s end,
Although your thorns may slay and wound and rend,
Still men must snatch you; for you are so fair.