The Thistle and the Rose

The gentle petals of a rose, the finest and fairest of all blooms With no other does it compare, its stems thorns should protect from harm Its scent lingers on so those that pass blindly cant fail to miss The princess of English flowers, leaves an imprint on my mind and heart that will never fade In contrast, from colder climes, a thistle stands alone A symbol of a nation, of home, a far cry from perfection, and apart from reality It stands in solitude, untouchable by its own protection and provides only a glimpse of charm The pride of Scotland, for in our hearts we fight and in loneliness it grows So who would think that side by side two blooms could thrive, together but apart And who would say that the thistle and the rose were matched, to be as one The spikes and thorns have, and always will, cause pain for those caught within their grasp But always and forever do their souls entwine, the pain endured, worth the pleasure given.