whose locust thorns are piercing me,

whose sharp hatred of my peace,

are killing all my love of thee.

whose coarse ablutions condemn me with pity,

and my heart broken with a control,

that's all that this life has missed,

with a drum-beat sharper than a sword.

and try to sing with falling leaves,

a melody fit for a queenly pose,

who knows what happens when you try,

to shape thorn into a rose.

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