 | Poems by William D. Howells |  |
129
THE THORN.
“Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn,
But this has none, I know.”
She clasped my rival's Rose
Over her breast of snow.
But this has none, I know.”
She clasped my rival's Rose
Over her breast of snow.
I bowed to hide my pain,
With a man's unskilful art;
I moved my lips, and could not say
The Thorn was in my heart!
With a man's unskilful art;
I moved my lips, and could not say
The Thorn was in my heart!
| Poems by William D. Howells | |