"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."

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

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

"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."

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

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

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

"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."

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

"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."

"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."

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

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

"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."

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

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

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

"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."

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

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

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

"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?"

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

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

"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."

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

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

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

"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."

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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?"

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

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