There is no rose that lives and dies thornless,
Without the thorn, the rose inveterate
Breeds lifeless life, inviolate.
No rose is born without the hope of death
Incarnate on his stem.
Breathe, I command: the flesh incarnadine
Is served by drinking, growing, breaking, dying;
No light withstands.
Softly suspire, transfixed upon the spine:
Wine-dark thought, crimson stain.
Your birth is marked with anger, ravished flower;
This age has withered, watching, yet
You hold the air dependant.
Also, then take mine,
And wreathe, recarnate, through the pressing light.