Nerves and Thistles

How so very grand it must feel

to know no more shame and fear.

I have not any nerves of steel,

so I ought to learn to disappear.


Sometimes I do wish I were more like a rose;

pleasant, yet sporting a mail of thorn,

but I am like a thistle that on the moor grows:

spiteful and lonely and weary and worn.

The End

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