THE THISTLE
Ha, prickle-armèd knight,
How oft the world hath cursed thee,
Thou pestilence of Earth,
The beldame who hath nursed thee!
Hath hellish Proserpine
Her needs lent to arm thee
That mischief-loving gods,
Pricked sorely, may not harm thee?
Or hath the mirthful Love
Presented thee his pinions
To dress thy tiny seeds,
The curse of man's dominions!
Thou like a maiden art
Who best can find protection
Employed at needlework
From idleness' infection.
And like a prude thou art
When he who loves embraces;
Thou dost repel with thorns
And she with sharper phrases.
And like the wraith thou art
Wherewith my heart is haunted;
Ye both take most delight
Where ye the least are wanted.
Miles M. Dawson
CLOVER
Little masters, hat in hand,
Let me in your presence stand,
Till your silence solve for me
This your threefold mystery.