Classic Poem

Yes; tell me all. For every thought of thine
Is unto me a flower I long to hold,
And thy past life is as a cup of gold
Brimming for me with sparkling joyous wine.
Yes; tell me what thy sorrows were of old!
Press deep thy thorn-crown! Make its red points mine!
Wear thou my bays and buds of eglantine;
Rob me, despoil me thou — sweet thief, be bold!

For then it shall be well with us. I wear
This wreath whose lingering blood-drops soil thine hair,
Whose raven-black, unsoiled, I love to see:
Thou takest flowers that thou dost need the more
Because their gracious bloom came not before,
Take thou my roses. Give thy thorns to me.