Song Of A Poor Pilgrim

Roses all the rosy way!         Roses to the rosier west     Where the roses of the day         Cling to night's unrosy breast!     Thou who mak'st the roses, why         Give to every leaf a thorn?     On thy rosy highway I         Still am by thy roses torn!     Pardon! I will not mistake         These good thorns that make me fret!     Goads to urge me, stings to wake,         For my freedom they are set.     Yea, on one steep mountain-side,         Climbing to a fancied fold,     Roses grasped had let me slide         But the thorns did keep their hold.     Out of darkness light is born,         Out of weakness make me strong:     One glad day will every thorn         Break into a rose of song.     Though like sparrow sit thy bird         Lonely on the house-top dark,     By the rosy dawning stirred         Up will soar thy praising lark;     Roses, roses all his song!         Roses in a gorgeous feast!     Roses in a royal throng,         Surging, rosing from the east!