Roses

"Now the milch-cows chew the cud, Everywhere are roses, roses; Here a-blow, and there a-bud, Here in pairs, and there in posies. Roses from the gable's cliff With pale flaky petals strowing All the garden-paths, as if Frolic summer took to snowing."

"O Rose thou art sick. The invisible worm, That flies in the night In the howling storm:Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy: And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy."

"The full-blown rose, mid'st dewy sweets, Most perfect dies."

"When we desire to confine our words, we commonly say they are spoken under the rose."

"This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples."

"'Twas a yellow rose, By that south window of the little house, My cousin Romney gathered with his hand On all my birthdays, for me, save the last; And then I shook the tree too rough, too rough, For roses to stay after."

"Oh, my Luve is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June. O, my Luve is like the melodie, That's sweetly played in tune."

"Give me one wish, and I'd be wassailing In the orchard, my English rose, Or with my shepherd, who'll bring me home."

"This little girl inside me Is retreating to her favourite place. Go into the garden. Go under the ivy, Under the leaves, Away from the party. Go right to the rose. Go right to the White Rose (For me.)"

"I'll be the Rose of Sharon for you Ooh I'll come in a hurricane for you I'll do it for you..."

"It never will rain roses: when we want To have more roses we must plant more trees."

"The Rose is pre-eminently the Flower of Love and Poetry, the very perfection of floral realities. Imagination may have flattered herself that her power could form a more perfect beauty; but, it is said, she never yet discovered such to mortal eyes."

"Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose."

"You can't really measure the effect of this kind of resistance in whether or not X number of bridges were blown up or a regime fell... The White Rose really has a more symbolic value, but that's a very important value."

"The red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose breathes of love; O, the red rose is a falcon, And the white rose is a dove."

"Every rose has its thorn Just like every night has its dawn Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song. Every rose has its thorn."

"Die of a rose in aromatic pain."

"Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die."

"God gave His children memory That in life's garden there might be June roses in December."

"In the mean time, Emily sat picking to pieces a rosebud, from the first deep crimson leaf to the delicate pink inside. Oh! that organ of destructiveness! She had gathered it only an hour ago—a single solitary flower, where the shrubbery had run into too luxuriant a vegetation for much bloom—the very Una of roses among the green leaves, "Making a sunshine in the shady place;" and now she was destroying it."

"As rich and purposeless as is the rose: Thy simple doom is to be beautiful."

"Inter omnes flores principatum Rosa facile obtinet."

"Viera estar rosal florido, cogí rosas con sospiro: vengo del rosale.'Del rosal vengo, mi madre, vengo del rosale."

"The rose-buds lay their crimson lips together."

"Red rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!"

"She wore a wreath of roses, The night that first we met."

"The rose that all are praising Is not the rose for me."

"Go pretty rose, go to my fair, Go tell her all I fain would dare, Tell her of hope; tell her of spring, Tell her of all I fain would sing, Oh! were I like thee, so fair a thing."

"Thus to the Rose, the Thistle: Why art thou not of thistle-breed? Of use thou'dst, then, be truly, For asses might upon thee feed."

"O rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,— Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee."

"And thus, what can we do, Poor rose and poet too, Who both antedate our mission In an unprepared season?"

"For if I wait," said she, "Till time for roses be,— For the moss-rose and the musk-rose, Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose,— "What glory then for me In such a company?— Roses plenty, roses plenty And one nightingale for twenty?"

"Red as a rose of Harpocrate."

"You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matter?"

"A white rosebud for a guerdon."

"All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves."

"Loveliest of lovely things are they On earth that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower."

"I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phœbus peeps in view, For its like a baumy kiss o'er her sweet bonnie mou'!."

"Yon rose-buds in the morning dew, How pure amang the leaves sae green!"

"When love came first to earth, the Spring Spread rose-beds to receive him."

"Roses were sette of swete savour, With many roses that thei bere."

"Je ne suis pas la rose, mais j'ai vécu pres d'elle."

"Till the rose's lips grow pale With her sighs."

"I wish I might a rose-bud grow And thou wouldst cull me from the bower, To place me on that breast of snow Where I should bloom a wintry flower."

"O beautiful, royal Rose, O Rose, so fair and sweet! Queen of the garden art thou, And I—the Clay at thy feet! * * * * Yet, O thou beautiful Rose! Queen rose, so fair and sweet, What were lover or crown to thee Without the Clay at thy feet?"

"Oh, raise your deep-fringed lids that close To wrap you in some sweet dream's thrall; I am the spectre of the rose You wore but last night at the ball."

"In Heaven's happy bowers There blossom two flowers, One with fiery glow And one as white as snow; While lo! before them stands, With pale and trembling hands, A spirit who must choose One, and one refuse."

"Pflücke Rosen, weil sie blühn, Morgen ist nicht heut! Keine Stunde lass entfliehn. Morgen ist nicht heut."

"It is written on the rose In its glory's full array: Read what those buds disclose— "Passing away.""

"Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is even in the grave, And thou must die."

"Roses at first were white, 'Till they co'd not agree, Whether my Sappho's breast Or they more white sho'd be."

"But ne'er the rose without the thorn."

"He came and took me by the hand, Up to a red rose tree, He kept His meaning to Himself, But gave a rose to me. I did not pray Him to lay bare The mystery to me, Enough the rose was Heaven to smell, And His own face to see."

"It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast: It was the time of roses We pluck'd them as we pass'd."

"Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street Till—think of that who find life so sweet!— She hates the smell of roses."

"And the guelder rose In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, Her wealth about her feet."

"The roses that in yonder hedge appear Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within; But since the hand may pluck them every day, Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away."

"The vermeil rose had blown In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown Like spiked aloe."

"But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed."

"Woo on, with odour wooing me, Faint rose with fading core; For God's rose-thought, that blooms in thee, Will bloom forevermore."

"Mais elle était du monde, où les plus belles choses Ont le pire destin; Et Rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses, L'espace d'un matin."

"And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies."

"Rose of the desert! thou art to me An emblem of stainless purity,— Of those who, keeping their garments white, Walk on through life with steps aright."

"While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue, But coyly linger'd on the thorn."

"Two roses on one slender spray In sweet communion grew, Together hailed the morning ray And drank the evening dew."

"Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose The golden sunset leaves its ray, So like a gem the flow'ret glows, We thither bend our headlong way; And though we find no treasure there, We bless the rose that shines so fair."

"Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd— You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still."

"There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long, In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song."

"No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh."

"'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone."

"What would the rose with all her pride be worth, Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?"

"Why do we shed the rose's bloom Upon the cold, insensate tomb? Can flowery breeze or odor's breath, Affect the slumbering chill of death?"

"Rose! thou art the sweetest flower, That ever drank the amber shower; Rose! thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild."

"Oh! there is naught in nature bright Whose roses do not shed their light; When morning paints the Orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes."

"The rose distils a healing balm The beating pulse of pain to calm."

"Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee."

"Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot— Worshipp'd while blooming—when she fades, forgot."

"Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say; Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?"

"O rose! the sweetest blossom, Of spring the fairest flower, O rose! the joy of heaven. The god of love, with roses His yellow locks adorning, Dances with the hours and graces."

"The sweetest flower that blows, I give you as we part For you it is a rose For me it is my heart."

"There was never a daughter of Eve but once, ere the tale of her years be done, Shall know the scent of the Eden Rose, but once beneath the sun; Though the years may bring her joy or pain, fame, sorrow or sacrifice, The hour that brought her the scent of the Rose, she lived it in Paradise."

"There is no gathering the rose without being pricked by the thorns."

"Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn."

"And when the parent-rose decays and dies, With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise."

"We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses, Dewy as the morning and coloured like the dawn; Little tents of odour, where the bee reposes, Swooning in sweetness of the bed he dreams upon."

"Die Rose blüht nicht ohne Dornen. Ja: wenn nur aber nicht die Dornen die Rose überlebten."

"The rose saith in the dewy morn, I am most fair; Yet all my loveliness is born Upon a thorn."

"I watched a rose-bud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower: Then when I thought it should be strong It opened at the matin hour And fell at even-song."

"The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears."

"From off this brier pluck a white rose with me."

"Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose, With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed."

"There will we make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies."

"Hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose."

"The red rose on triumphant brier."

"And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air, The soul of her beauty and love lay bare."

"Should this fair rose offend thy sight, Placed in thy bosom bare, 'Twill blush to find itself less white, And turn Lancastrian there."

"I am the one rich thing that morn Leaves for the ardent noon to win; Grasp me not, I have a thorn, But bend and take my being in."

"It was nothing but a rose I gave her,— Nothing but a rose Any wind might rob of half its savor, Any wind that blows. * * * * * Withered, faded, pressed between these pages, Crumpled, fold on fold,— Once it lay upon her breast, and ages Cannot make it old!"

"The year of the rose is brief; From the first blade blown to the sheaf, From the thin green leaf to the gold, It has time to be sweet and grow old, To triumph and leave not a leaf."

"And half in shade and half in sun; The Rose sat in her bower, With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart."

"And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose?"

"The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!"

"Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows. When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be."

"How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flower. The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. Yet the Rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field; When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!"

"Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they be withered."

"The budding rose above the rose full blown."

"Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre Or in the wine vat, dwell beyond the stir And tumult of defeated dreams."

"I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer."

"And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eyes."

"The fresh eglantine exhaled a breath, Those odours were of power to raise from death."

"Wild-rose, Sweetbriar, Eglantine, All these pretty names are mine, And scent in every leaf is mine, And a leaf for all is mine, And the scent—Oh, that's divine! Happy-sweet and pungent fine, Pure as dew, and pick'd as wine."

"Rain-scented eglantine Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun."

"Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine."

"As through the verdant maze Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk; Or taste the smell of dairy."

"The garden rose may richly bloom In cultured soil and genial air, To cloud the light of Fashion's room Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair, In lonelier grace, to sun and dew The sweetbrier on the hillside shows Its single leaf and fainter hue, Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose!"

"A wild rose roofs the ruined shed, And that and summer well agree."

"A brier rose, whose buds Yield fragrant harvest for the honey bee."

"A waft from the roadside bank Tells where the wild rose nods."