At Morn I Plucked A Rose And Gave It Thee, A Rose Of Joy And Happy Love And Peace, A Rose With Scarce A Thorn: But In The Chillness Of A Second Morn My Rose Bush Drooped, And All Its Gay Increase Was But One Thorn That Wounded Me. I Plucked The Thorn And Offered It To Thee; And For My Thorn Thou Gavest Love And Peace, Not Joy This Mortal Morn: If Thou Hast Given Much Treasure For A Thorn, Wilt Thou Not Give Me For My Rose Increase Of Gladness, And All Sweets To Me? My Thorny Rose, My Love And Pain, To Thee I Offer; And I Set My Heart In Peace, And Rest Upon My Thorn: For Verily I Think To-Morrow Morn Shall Bring Me Paradise, My Gift'S Increase, Yea, Give Thy Very Self To Me.