The rose is red, and famous for its thorn,
That pain which lies at ev’ry beauty’s core:
The knowledge it will leave and we will mourn,
And that – the greater beauty – mourn the more.

Just like the rose your lips are scarlet red,
And promise lovers suffering not peace;
Shiv’ring I cannot mark them without dread,
Knowing the price to pay when I’m released.

Oh let me suffer now and thus inure
myself to your inevitable loss;
Pain is the price of beauty and no cure
for pain exists except to pay the cost.

Just as pig iron’s beaten into steel,
Poets must be beaten not to feel.