The Thorny Rose

Watch our story, now unfold

And see what glitters else than gold;

Cross the snow that starshine weeps,

Under which, the forest sleeps,

And dream-writ tales are told.

So beauteous, the hidden hoards,

As players now traverse the boards

Their treasure-hunt so well equipped

They may not ask who writes the script;

But seek their just rewards.

The rose that's cut from thorny stem

So like a precious floral gem,

But once it's cut, the wound must heal,

Howe'er it makes the lovers feel,

Ripped from its diadem.

And sight is but a single sense,

That beauty holds in rapt suspense;

And every one embraced alone

Is like a ring without a stone,

And scorns such base pretence.

The tiger's beauty, undenied,

When it at last is now espied;

But though it's framed in laurel wreath,

No crown can stop its fearsome teeth,

The beauty never died.

So beauty seekers, now I warn,

There is no rose without a thorn,

Nor tiger born without a tooth,

Nor verse without a dreadful truth,

Nor perfume that won't cloud the mind,

Nor honey that a mouth won't bind.

Nor song without a siren's call,

And so good luck to seekers all,

Lest you be left forlorn.