The Thistle

Ha, prickle-armèd knight,
How oft the world hath cursed thee,
Thou pestilence of Earth,
The beldame who hath nursed thee!

Hath hellish Proserpine
Her needs lent to arm thee
That mischief-loving gods,
Pricked sorely, may not harm thee?

Or hath the mirthful Love
Presented thee his pinions
To dress thy tiny seeds,
The curse of man’s dominions!

Thou like a maiden art
Who best can find protection
Employed at needlework
From idleness’ infection.

And like a prude thou art
When he who loves embraces;
Thou dost repel with thorns
And she with sharper phrases.

And like the wraith thou art
Wherewith my heart is haunted;
Ye both take most delight
Where ye the least are wanted.

Miles M. Dawson