They’re elegant and beautiful,
Without a thorn to show,And yet they have so little scent.
For that is how they grow.
But in the wild, when roses bloom,
Their fragrance scents the wind,
And every stem is rich with thorns
The careless hand to rend.
Why is it that such rich perfume
Comes only with the thorn
And not upon the thorn less rose
That’s safely hot-house born?
Perhaps it’s so in all of life,
What’s 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 offset thorns I grow.
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