And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the

Thomas Moore, poet of Ireland, once wrote with a voice tender yet piercing: “And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.” In this image he reveals one of the oldest truths of the human condition — that those who are most sensitive to beauty are also most vulnerable to pain. To awaken to the flowers is to notice the delicate and fleeting joys of life, but in noticing them, the soul also discovers the presence of thorns, those hidden sorrows that accompany every sweetness. The heart that loves deeply is also the heart that suffers greatly.

The ancients knew this paradox well. The Greek tragedians told of Orpheus, whose gift for music awakened the beauty of all creation, yet whose love for Eurydice condemned him to unbearable loss. The very heart that could charm stones and beasts with song was also torn by grief more profound than others could endure. To be awake to flowers is to live vividly, but it also means that the sharpness of life’s edges will cut more keenly. Moore’s words stand in this ancient lineage: the soul that seeks beauty must also accept sorrow as its twin.

History offers countless witnesses to this truth. Consider Vincent van Gogh, whose eyes saw colors brighter than the world around him, who found flowers even in barren fields. His sensitivity gave the world paintings that pulse with life, but that same openness of heart left him exposed to despair. His gift and his suffering were bound together, as Moore suggests: the awakened spirit cannot touch the rose without also feeling the thorn.

Yet Moore’s words are not only lament, but also honor. To feel the sting of the thorn is proof that the heart is alive, tender, and true. The dull spirit may pass through the garden without seeing either flower or thorn; it neither rejoices deeply nor suffers deeply. But what is such a life compared to the one that trembles with beauty and bleeds with sorrow? The awakened heart may suffer first, but it also loves most, and in that love it discovers meaning far beyond comfort.

We may also hear in Moore’s quote a warning about innocence and vulnerability. Those who are quick to trust, quick to admire, quick to love, are often the first to be wounded by betrayal, cruelty, or neglect. The heart that opens itself to beauty also opens itself to pain. Yet this is not weakness; it is the price of being truly human. A shielded heart may avoid the thorns, but it will never gather the fragrance of the flowers. Moore invites us not to withdraw, but to accept both gifts with courage.

The lesson for us is clear: do not close your heart in fear of pain. Let it awaken to the flowers, even knowing the thorns will follow. For every life that tastes beauty will taste sorrow, but it is better to live fully, with all its wounds and wonders, than to sleep through the garden untouched. Suffering and joy are not enemies; they are bound as stem and bloom. To refuse one is to refuse both.

Practically, this means embracing vulnerability in your own life. Do not fear to love, to admire, to be moved. When the thorns come — as they surely will — do not curse the flowers for their cost. Instead, honor both, knowing that the pain you feel is the measure of the depth of your love. And remember that every wound, though sharp, also proves that your heart has been truly alive.

Thus, Thomas Moore’s words endure as wisdom for every generation: “The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.” Let them be both comfort and command. Comfort, because your pain is not weakness but proof of your depth. Command, because even with thorns ahead, you must not cease to awaken to the flowers. For only the awakened heart lives fully — and only the living heart can teach others how to endure.