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| BARBED blossom of the guarded gorse, | |
| I love thee where I see thee shine: | |
| Thou sweetener of our common-ways, | |
| And brightener of our wintry days. | |
| |
| Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead, | 5 |
| Thou art undying, O be mine! | |
| Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest | |
| Close on a heart that asks not rest. | |
| |
| I pluck thee and thy stigma set | |
| Upon my breast and on my brow, | 10 |
| Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath | |
| That none may know the wounds beneath. | |
| |
| O thorny crown of burning gold, | |
| No festal coronal art thou; | |
| Thy honeyed blossoms are but hives | 15 |
| That guard the growth of wingëd lives. | |
| |
| I saw thee in the time of flowers | |
| As sunshine spilled upon the land, | |
| Or burning bushes all ablaze | |
| With sacred fire; but went my ways; | 20 |
| |
| I went my ways, and as I went | |
| Plucked kindlier blooms on either hand; | |
| Now of those blooms so passing sweet | |
| None lives to stay my passing feet. | |
| |
| And yet thy lamp upon the hill | 25 |
| Feeds on the autumn’s dying sigh, | |
| And from thy midst comes murmuring | |
| A music sweeter than in spring. | |
| |
| Barbed blossom of the guarded gorse, | |
| Be mine to wear until I die, | 30 |
| And mine the wounds of love which still | |
| Bear witness to his human will. | |
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