Poems By Mary Elizabeth Coleridge |
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| XIX. | XIXGIFTS |
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 | Poems |  |
XIX
GIFTS
I tossed my friend a wreath of roses, wet
With early dew, the garland of the morn.
He lifted it—and on his brow he set
A crackling crown of thorn.
With early dew, the garland of the morn.
He lifted it—and on his brow he set
A crackling crown of thorn.
Against my foe I hurled a murderous dart.
He caught it in his hand—I heard him laugh—
I saw the thing that should have pierced his heart
Turn to a golden staff.
He caught it in his hand—I heard him laugh—
I saw the thing that should have pierced his heart
Turn to a golden staff.
| Poems | |