“Where blooms, O my Father, a thornless rose?”
“That can I not tell thee, my child;
Not one on the bosom of earth e'er grows,
But wounds whom its charms have beguiled.”

“Would I'd a rose on my bosom to lie!
But I shrink from the piercing thorn;
I long, but dare not its point defy,
I long, and I gaze forlorn.”

“Not so, O my child, round the stem again
Thy resolute fingers entwine—
Forego not the joy for its sister pain,
Let the rose, the sweet rose, be thine!”