Thank God for Love: though Love may hurt and wound Though set with sharpest thorns its rose may be, Roses are not of winter, all attuned Must be the earth, full of soft stir, and free And warm ere dawns the rose upon its tree. Fresh currents through my frozen pulses run; My heart has tasted summer, tasted sun, And I can thank Thee, Lord, although not one Of all the many roses blooms for me.