Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 19

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XIX 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.
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