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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