Lament Of An 18th Century Hemophilliac Poem by Ray Clune

In a garden near a river sits a rare rose tree,
The blooms that grow there in summer,
Are a wondrous sight to see

Delicate the petals, purest colour, Apricot.
The branches on which they flower,
Sturdy, verdant green and the thorns...
extremely sharp.

I plucked a rose for to give my love,
Withdrew my hand,
Upon my wrist,
Horror of deep crimsons stain.
Alas no medicine or physician,
Could deny my deathly fate.

A thorn, to most a harmless thing.

Harshly taken from this world,
Far from my loves embrace,
This Spirit mourns and dwells here still,
Supplicated, for my Lady, I await.