Hedge of Thorns
My heart a rose in hedge of thorns is grown;
in red of blood and sun its bloom is blown.
The thorns are long, they bite, and breath alone
can navigate that mazy, bitter maw
to reach the folded throne of love and law.
The leaves amidst the thorns are fresh and green
and lace around the vines with dewy sheen,
a velvet underlying saber keen,
and deep inside, a jewel upon the hilt,
a ruby blooms, and needs no further gilt.
The night is sailing in her ship
along a river vast and wide;
the trees are growing dark and thick
and overhang on every side.
The moon is chasing clouds away;
it pushes them with winds of light.
Their sails are puffed, their rigging splayed,
adorned with solemn lanterns bright.