Red Berries of Briony

  by: William Wilsey Martin (1833-1913)

 

 

 

 

Rich was the harvest he vow'd to reap,
When he planted his germ below;
"Love will give sheaves of red gold to keep,
And its fruit will be sweet, I know."
But his golden sheaves
Are the wrinkled leaves
By the gusty autumn borne;
And his fruit, the red barries of briony
That cling round a wither'd thorn.

 

"Roses will throw me their blooms," she said,
"When winter is white on the tree;
Love will bring clusters when leaves are dead--
The vine's purple clusters to me."
But her rose-tree stands
With roseless hands,
In the cold bleak air forlorn;
And her clusters are berries of briony
That cling round a wither'd thorn.


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