Abram Joseph Ryan

A Thought

The summer rose the sun has flushed
 With crimson glory may be sweet;
'Tis sweeter when its leaves are crushed
 Beneath the wind's and tempest's feet.

The rose that waves upon its tree,
 In life sheds perfume all around;
More sweet the perfume floats to me
 Of roses trampled on the ground.

The waving rose with every breath
 Scents carelessly the summer air;
The wounded rose bleeds forth in death
 A sweetness far more rich and rare.

It is a truth beyond our ken --
 And yet a truth that all may read --
It is with roses as with men,
 The sweetest hearts are those that bleed.

The flower which Bethlehem saw bloom
 Out of a heart all full of grace,
Gave never forth its full perfume
 Until the cross became its vase.