Come to me, come to me, wild rose who grows
Apart–I climb the thorny mountain,
And I tread the thorny path to know
The thorny secret of your thorny heart.
Bitter the wind and long, long the way
To come to the dancing brook, your fountain;
The thorny rock I climb both night and day.
And there at your root I slept, a day and night,
And dreamed a pilgrim dream that has not
Gone away: O little mountain rose, who bent
And said the words my heart still hears: Come to me–
Come to me, walker and stranger, come drink
Beside my rocks and my roots, come drink
My dreams and kiss the bitter thorn of me.