poetry

the tear-kiss

For I would not to be near-missed...Nor less the tear-kissed...

What is a rose rid of thorns
    But a beauty bared and naked
        Of what keeps it bravest,
            Safest and sacred?
    Give me the prick of suffering, then,
And not a heart to harden,
  But a feel for even
    The softest sensation—

That I might stand amidst the garden;
    For I would not to be near-missed,
        Nor less the tear-kissed,
            By love’s fullest blossom tender,
    As such may spring
Only from surrender
  Unto so sweetly thistled
    A sanctification.


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