If A Thorn Wounds Me
If a thorn wounds me, I draw back from it;
I do not hate the thorn. If, hating me
Some base hand pierces me with malice blind,
Silent I turn away, and go to find a purer air of love and charity.
Rancor? For What?
Has good e’er sprang from it?
No wound it staunches, puts no evil right.
Scarce has my rose tree time to bear its flowers;
It wastes no vital sap on thorns of spite,
And if my foe should near my rose tree pass
He shall pinch from it many a fragrant bud;
And if he sees in them a vivid red,
And tint will be the redness of my blood -
Blood drawn by the ill will of yesterday
In hatered that it seemed could never cease,
And which the rose tree now in perfume sweet
Returns to him, changed to a flower of peace.
(by: Amado Nervo)
