Poems by Themis

The Thorns

The rose is sleeping amid the thorns,

The thorns are preening points,

Ready to meet the Gatherer

An old world-law anoints.

Foul and fair within the air

Give no sure sunlight clue;

Feign to be the arbiter,

And they will punish you.

Feign to be the Chosen One,

— Caught in the traps they lay,

You'll see the evil mockeries,

And wither on the way.

Only Love's hands may take and wake,

As ready for the thorn. ...

— But will the beauty compensate

The blood, the flesh that's torn?

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