The seed I sowed, believing
In an everlasting rose,
Is now a stalk, unleaving
Its harvest to the snows,
And from its green-leafed fire
There's only left to burn
The stiff bone of the briar,
The cold-glossed hollow thorn.
Though bitter sap is squeezing
Where once a sweet glow ran,
My twisted stalk is seizing
These comforts while it can:
Although no bud shall splinter
Fresh leaves to greet the spring,
The briar will last out winter,
The thorn be sharp to sting.