Norman Gale
1862.
A Song
F
irst 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.