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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