What is that tapping? There it is again!

A spray of roses blown against the pane —
Thorns scratching and a softly-thudding bloom.

It's strange, as we mope here in this prim room,
Yawning for bedtime in the cold lamplight,
To think of roses blowing in the night,
And just that thin glass shutting them outside.
Oh, how I long to fling the window wide!

Roses and thorns!
Ay, thorns too, if need be!
Rather than hear them tap incessantly
The cold glass that shuts in my heart, I'd bare
My bosom for the sharpest thorns to tear.