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The Thorns
I cannot find thy flowers, they have not blown,The cruel winter will not let them live;
The seed in every heart thy hand has sown,
Yet none will back to Thee the blossom give;
Their roots without the bosom daily grow,
And every branch blooms inward and unseen;
The hidden roots unsightly length they show,
And hide the limbs that thou has clothed with green;
They will not like the plants that own thy care,
The heavy laden boughs extend to all;
They will not of the flowers Thou giv'st them share,
But drink the rain that on their bosoms fall,
And nought return but prickly briar and thorn,
That from the enclosed heart thy children warn.
Poem No. 219; c. January 1839
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