They’re elegant and beautiful,
Without a thorn to show,
And yet they have so little scent.
But that’s just how they grow.
But in the wild sweet roses bloom,
Their fragrance scents the wind,
While every stem is rich with thorns
The careless hand to rend.
Why is it that such rich perfume
Comes only with a thorn
And not upon the thorn less rose
That’s safely hot house born?
Perhaps it’s so in all of life,
That safe can be dull, too.
The sweetest hearts that we all know
Have a sharp thorn or two.
I’ll never be as perfect as
The silken hot house rose,
But I can still be sweet enough
To ease each thorn that grows.
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