Roses


Oh roses who must toil away
At kitchen, hearth or in your home,
Whose weary eyes will warm a little
When he leaves you all alone.

Oh hearts that thought they beat in time
Until their sorry tale unfolded,
Don’t let your heart be beaten down
Or your blood-red petals moulded.

He sees you with a selfish eye
Each day it gains more power,
You need not let him steal you
Or lead you to his bower.

For now his shining hour is up
And all the world knows,
At last you can be free of him,
For with thorns comes a rose.

No more shall ye be silenced, friend,
No more shall he avail,
For roses all have thorns, my dear,
And each one tells a tale.

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