Gifts
I tossed my friend a wreath of roses, wet
With early dew, the garland of the morn.
He lifted it--and on his brow he set
A crackling crown of thorn.
Against my foe I hurled a murderous dart.
He caught it in his hand--I heard him laugh--
I saw the thing that should have pierced his heart
Turn to a golden staff.
With early dew, the garland of the morn.
He lifted it--and on his brow he set
A crackling crown of thorn.
Against my foe I hurled a murderous dart.
He caught it in his hand--I heard him laugh--
I saw the thing that should have pierced his heart
Turn to a golden staff.
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