Roses

"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."