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Gather roses while they bloom, To-morrow is yet far away. Moments lost have no room In to-morrow or to-day. [Ger., Pflucke Rosen, weil sie bluhn, Morgen ist nicht heut! Keine Stunde lass entfliehn. Morgen ist nicht heut.]
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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!
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I am a rose; you are my thorns, clutching and protecting me.
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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.
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I gave my blood to keep your roses red.
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I saw the rose-grove blushing in pride, I gathered the blushing rose–and sigh’d– I come from the rose-grove, mother, I come from the grove of roses.
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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.
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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.
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