You do not seem to realize that beauty is a liability rather than
an asset – that in view of the fact that spirit creates form we are
justified in supposing
that you must have brains. For you, a symbol of the unit, stiff
and sharp,
conscious of surpassing by dint of native superiority and liking
for everything self-dependent,
on anything an ambitious civilization might produce: for you, unaided, to attempt
through sheer
reserve to confute presumptions resulting from observation is
idle. You cannot make us
think you a delightful happen-so. But rose, if you are brilliant,
it
is not because your petals are the without-which-nothing of pre-
eminence. You would look, minus
thorns – like a what-is-this,
a mere peculiarity. They are not proof against a storm, the elements, or
mildew
but what about the predatory hand? What is brilliance without
coordination? Guarding the
infinitesimal pieces of your mind, compelling audience to
the remark that it is better to be forgotten than to be
remembered too violently,
your thorns are the best part of you.
Roses Only by Marianne Moore