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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.
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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.
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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.
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Rose are red; violets are blue; when I think of you, my writing comes out corny.
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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.
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Rose of the Desert! Thus should woman be Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.
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Rose of the Garden! such is woman’s lot– Worshipp’d while blooming–when she fades, forgot.
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Rose were sette of swete savour, With many roses that thei bere.
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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.
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Roses at first were white. ‘Till they co’d not agree, Whether my Sappho’s breast Or they more white sho’d be.
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Roses were sette of sweete savour, With many roses that thei here.
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She wore a wreath of roses, The night that first we met.
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Should this fair rose offend thy sight, Placed in thy bosom bare, ‘Twill blush to find itself less white, And turn Lancastrian there.
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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.
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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.
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The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose’s scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!
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The fragrance of the rose, remains on the hand that gives it.
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The full-blown rose, mid dewy sweets Most perfect dies.
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The rose distils a healing balm The beating pulse of pain to calm.
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The rose Propt at the cottage door with careful hands, Bursts its green bud, and looks abroad for May.
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