A Thorn Among Roses
White saturates the air, whisks about and lands
On likewise white hair, and on grey bony hands.
The traveler shudders from within his mottled cloak
And rolls a wretched shoulder, his satchel dark with soak.
Alone he treks forever across the endless, barren plains
Bearing all alone his haunting burdens and his pains.
His plight is great, as is his freight, and his eternal wait
To see the gate, through bitter slate, and cold engulfing hate.
Snow gnashes the air and bloats the ground; white oblivion all around.
Under the dark cowl, ragged breath the only sound, a scowl is found.
Pain has not yet bent his resolve, nor has the fiendish world broken him
Though his life with malice has filled his bitter cup to the brim,
His stride is strong; his fiery eyes have not yet begun to dim.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (A Thorn Among Roses by Paul Lierman )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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