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HE thorn we think unfriendly and cruel to degree Pronounced, and hard to understand, but look again and see A lovely flower blooming near, that needs the zealous care Of sentinels, to closely guard the glowing sweetness there; The tender buds are known to creep most gently through the fold Containing them, with little coats, a gracious nature mould, Until a full-blown rose is seen, the senses to delight; A thorn this perfect thing must shield; this symbol sweet and bright. The positive bush; the sturdy stem, as little warriors stand Upon the plot they call their own, and nourished by a Hand Divine it seems, as proof we have in every passing hour; The giant trees attest the same, likewise the tender flower. The bees that seek the clover-fields and fill their honey- straws With sweetness which a king might crave, beyond his swarming laws; Yet faithful wards to shield their store of nectar which they bring, Are, as the flowers, provided with a self-protecting sting. A thistle blossom you may see, but its most charming page Touch not, lest chapters sad to read, with pain your thoughts engage, And beauty in a thousand forms may float on dovelike wings, But ponder well, for sweetest sweets are honeycombed with stings. |