Yes; tell me all. For every thought of thine Is unto me a flower I long to hold, And thy past life is as a cup of gold Brimming for me with sparkling joyous wine. Yes; tell me what thy sorrows were of old! Press deep thy thorn-crown! Make its red points mine! Wear thou my bays and buds of eglantine, And round my brows thine austere garland fold. For then it shall be well with us. I wear This wreath whose lingering blood-drops soil thine hair, Whose raven-black, unsoiled, I love to see: Thou takest flowers that thou dost need the more Because their gracious bloom came not before: Take thou my roses; give thy thorns to me. |