Thorns of the Heart

"My sweetest Rose!" he called me,
      honeyed words from his lips.
A rose? A pretty flower with
      'taint of poison on its tips.
But he bought them by the dozens
      with which to fill my room
So less like a lovers' bower
      than as a mourners' tomb.
And yet I gave him pity, my love,
      and set to praise the deed
'Till I found him in another's arms
      which crushed my fragile seed.
Oh, give me jewels and diamonds
      sweet rhyme and thoughtful prose,
Bouquets of fragrant wildflowers,
      but never, never a rose!