Reproach

Whence come these thorns, O lily,
with which you repel me and show no pity?
Here is a pride you have made to bleed;
it clamors within me, crying out, unquiet.
Where is the longing, the admiring love,
radiant and shining in its own sky?
He gave it to you out of his very pride,
and you paid no heed to all he lavished.
O you of delicate feeling, be gentle — for I,
like you, have a soul that is tender and green with leaves;
in it is a tremor of youth's enchantment,
and the softness of a lover whose heart beats fast.
I fear, should you once make it bleed,
that we shall lose the light, and it will shine no more.
You were given, O lily, a sense from the unseen world;
if it should stray, who then will be gentle?