Song of a Poor Pilgrim
Roses all the rosy way!
Roses to the rosier west
Where the roses of the day
Cling to night’s unrosy breast!
Thou who mak’st the roses, why
Give to every leaf a thorn?
On thy rosy highway I
Still am by thy roses torn!
Pardon! I will not mistake
These good thorns that make me fret!
Goads to urge me, stings to wake,
For my freedom they are set.
Yea, on one steep mountain-side,
Climbing to a fancied fold,
Roses grasped had let me slide
But the thorns did keep their hold.
Out of darkness light is born,
Out of weakness make me strong:
One glad day will every thorn
Break into a rose of song.
Though like sparrow sit thy bird
Lonely on the house-top dark,
By the rosy dawning stirred
Up will soar thy praising lark;
Roses, roses all his song!
Roses in a gorgeous feast!
Roses in a royal throng,
Surging, rosing from the east!
