A Rose Bush with Barbarous Thorns by Joan Currie

I tended a rose bush with loving care,
In hopes her beauty might my heart ensnare.
Her petals bloomed, a velvet blush of red,
But soon I found her charm, a thing to dread.

Her thorns, like daggers, pierced my seeking hand,
Each touch a wound no comfort could withstand.
The blood she drew ran crimson on the earth,
A wicked price for such a meager birth.

No scent she gave, no fragrant breath of grace,
A beauty hollow, lacking warm embrace.
Where other roses filled the air with song,
She stood in silence, sharp where she was strong.

And though a flower crowned her once, then fell,
She offered little more than this to tell.
A bloom or two, in early summer’s light,
Then naught but thorns to meet my hand in spite.

Oh roses sweet, that gentle hearts adore,
‘Tis not enough – one might yearn for more.
The fairest face is not the fairest soul-
Without the perfume, beauty is not whole.

I finally gave up on this difficult rose bush and replaced it with a tea rose that had the most alluring fragrance. I wish I had done it years ago!