Emily Pfeiffer (1841–1890)

BARBED blossom of the guarded gorse,

I love thee where I see thee shine:

Thou sweetener of our common-ways,

And brightener of our wintry days.

Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,

Thou art undying, O be mine!

Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest

Close on a heart that asks not rest.

I pluck thee and thy stigma set

Upon my breast and on my brow,

Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath

That none may know the wounds beneath.

O thorny crown of burning gold,

No festal coronal art thou;

Thy honeyed blossoms are but hives

That guard the growth of wingëd lives.

I saw thee in the time of flowers

As sunshine spilled upon the land,

Or burning bushes all ablaze

With sacred fire; but went my ways;

I went my ways, and as I went

Plucked kindlier blooms on either hand;

Now of those blooms so passing sweet

None lives to stay my passing feet.

And yet thy lamp upon the hill

Feeds on the autumn’s dying sigh,

And from thy midst comes murmuring

A music sweeter than in spring.

Barbed blossom of the guarded gorse,

Be mine to wear until I die,

And mine the wounds of love which still

Bear witness to his human will.