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In a dark window, in a gray flower-pot,
Frowned a rough and thorny cactus.
Once on a morning
Red was the chalice that burst from the stalk,
Red was the blossom.
Came to us once a poet whose view differed,
Who adored fragrant and gorgeous roses.
In sounding distichs
Praised the rose and proudly censured
That ruddy blossom.
There are rough souls that have trod life's path alone,
Thorns and prickles enveloped them entire.
What did their hearts hold?
Bloomed they but once and bloomed they at night, look!
Red was the blossom.