A Song

First the fine, faint, dreamy motion
Of the tender blood
Circling in the veins of children--
This is Life, the bud.

Next the fresh, advancing beauty
Growing from the gloom,
Waking eyes and fuller bosom--
This is Life, the bloom.

Then the pain that follows after,
Grievous to be borne,
Pricking, steeped in subtle poison--
This is Love, the thorn.