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Rose Poems

Rose Poem Suggestions

Famous Rose Poems

  1. A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns
  2. The Last Rose of Summer by Thomas Moore
  3. The Sick Rose by William Blake
  4. A Rose by Emily Dickinson

Short Rose Poems

  1. A Rose by Emily Dickinson
  2. Clod of the Earth by Anna Hempstead Branch
  3. There ’s nothing like the rose by Christina Rossetti
  4. "He's Killed the May..." by Adelaide Crapsey
  5. The Rose by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  6. The Rose by Ruby Archer
  7. The Sick Rose by William Blake
  8. Ashes of Roses by Elaine
  9. Wild Rose of Colorado by Ruby Archer
  10. The Rose by Grace Hazard Conkling
  11. Hope is like a harebell by Christina Rossetti
  12. The Humming Bird by Edwin Markham
  13. She sets the world on fire by Christina Rossetti
  14. The Wild-Rose Thicket by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
  15. Two Little Roses by Julia P. Ballard
  16. Amid the Roses by John B. Tabb
  17. In the Garden by Ernest Crosby
  18. Nameless Pain by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  19. The Hedge-Rose Opens by Alfred Noyes
  20. The First Rose of Summer by Oliver Herford
  21. Wild Roses and Snow by Mackenzie Bell
  22. The Lovers by Emily Dickinson
  23. Red Rose by Raymond Garfield Dandridge
  24. The Withered Rose-Tree by Peter Burn

Rose Poems for Kids

  1. In the Garden by Ernest Crosby
  2. Amid the Roses by John B. Tabb
  3. The Withered Rose-Tree by Peter Burn
  4. The First Rose of Summer by Oliver Herford
  5. The Wild-Rose by Ellen P. Allerton

Love Poems About Roses

  1. The Lovers by Emily Dickinson
  2. A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns
  3. Red Rose by Raymond Garfield Dandridge
  4. Every Rose Hath Its Thorn by James McIntyre
  5. Ashes of Roses by Elaine
  6. Go, Lovely Rose by Edmund Waller

Sad Rose Poems

  1. Red Rose by Raymond Garfield Dandridge
  2. Nameless Pain by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  3. The Last Rose of Summer by Thomas Moore
  4. The Rose by Grace Hazard Conkling
  5. Ashes of Roses by Elaine

Every rose has its thorn.

– Old Proverb
  1. A Rose

    by Emily Dickinson

    A sepal, petal, and a thorn
    Upon a common summer's morn,
    A flash of dew, a bee or two,
    A breeze
    A caper in the trees, —
    And I'm a rose!

  2. Petals

    by Amos Russel Wells

    The shattered rose has fallen to the floor
    In shelly loveliness. The carpet's green
    Forms a new turf, and in that lower scene
    Each petal blossoms as a flower once more.
    How light it lies as having wings to soar,
    A curve of pink! And how its gentle mien,
    The soft, rich fulness of its tender sheen,
    Surpass the clustered rose we knew before!

    Oh, not in labor's summer-bloom of pride
    Does life its crowning loveliness disclose.
    Sweeter the lights in autumn days that hide,
    And tender age a morning beauty shows.
    Scatter life's broken petals far and wide:
    Each is a newer and a lovelier rose.

  3. The Presence of the Rose

    by Angela Morgan

    From out imprisoning petals—velvet, red—
    Thy soul slips forth in fragrance wondrous sweet—
    A silent subtle presence—never fled,
    That makes thy mastery over me complete.

    How can I doubt God and eternal things
    When I look on thy beauty—lovely rose?
    A sudden certainty within me springs—
    The very gates of Heaven to me unclose!

    Hast thou, then, waited all this weary time
    From tiny bud to fullest crimson bloom—
    With hope and patience wondrously sublime
    Through dismal, dreary months of cold and gloom?

    Hast waited for my sake—heroic flower—
    That this great secret—hidden close with thee—
    Should in the sacred silence of this hour
    Be all unfolded and revealed to me?

  4. In the Garden

    by Ernest Crosby

    I spied beside the garden bed
    A tiny lass of ours,
    Who stopped and bent her sunny head
    Above the red June flowers.

    Pushing the leaves and thorns apart,
    She singled out a rose,
    And in its inmost crimson heart,
    Enraptured, plunged her nose.

    "O dear, dear rose, come, tell me true—
    Come, tell me true," said she,
    "If I smell just as sweet to you
    As you smell sweet to me!"

  5. My Rose

    by Emily Dickinson

    Pigmy seraphs gone astray,
    Velvet people from Vevay,
    Belles from some lost summer day,
    Bees' exclusive coterie.
    Paris could not lay the fold
    Belted down with emerald;
    Venice could not show a cheek
    Of a tint so lustrous meek.

    Never such an ambuscade
    As of brier and leaf displayed
    For my little damask maid.
    I had rather wear her grace
    Than an earl's distinguished face;
    I had rather dwell like her
    Than be Duke of Exeter
    Royalty enough for me
    To subdue the bumble-bee!

  6. The Lovers

    by Emily Dickinson

    The rose did caper on her cheek,
    Her bodice rose and fell,
    Her pretty speech, like drunken men,
    Did stagger pitiful.

    Her fingers fumbled at her work, —
    Her needle would not go;
    What ailed so smart a little maid
    It puzzled me to know,

    Till opposite I spied a cheek
    That bore another rose;
    Just opposite, another speech
    That like the drunkard goes;

    A vest that, like the bodice, danced
    To the immortal tune, —
    Till those two troubled little clocks
    Ticked softly into one.

  7. A Red, Red Rose

    by Robert Burns

    O my Luve is like a red, red rose
    That’s newly sprung in June;
    O my Luve is like the melody
    That’s sweetly played in tune.

    So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
    So deep in luve am I;
    And I will luve thee still, my dear,
    Till a’ the seas gang dry.

    Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
    And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
    I will love thee still, my dear,
    While the sands o’ life shall run.

    And fare thee weel, my only luve!
    And fare thee weel awhile!
    And I will come again, my luve,
    Though it were ten thousand mile.

  8. Clod of the Earth

    by Anna Hempstead Branch

    Clod of the earth, that hardly knows
    How the warm sun comes or the cold rain goes,
    That lieth dumb and bleak and bare,
    It was thy thought begat the rose.

  9. The Sick Rose

    by William Blake

    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.

  10. The Garden of Saint Rose

    by Bliss Carman

    This is a holy refuge
    The garden of Saint Rose
    A fragrant altar to that peace
    The world no longer knows.

    Below a solemn hillside
    Within the folding shade
    Of overhanging beech and pine
    Its walls and walks are laid.

    Cool through the heat of summer,
    Still as a sacred grove,
    It has the rapt unworldly air
    Of mystery and love.

    All day before its outlook
    The mist-blue mountains loom,
    And in its trees at tranquil dusk
    The early stars will bloom.

    Down its enchanted borders
    Glad ranks of color stand,
    Like hosts of silent seraphim
    Awaiting love's command.

    Lovely in adoration
    They wait in patient line,
    Snow-white and purple and deep gold
    About the rose-gold shrine.

    And there they guard the silence,
    While still from her recess
    Through sun and shade Saint Rose looks down
    In mellow loveliness.

    She seems to say, "O stranger,
    Behold how loving care
    That gives its life for beauty's sake,
    Makes everything more fair!

    "Then praise the Lord of gardens
    For tree and flower and vine,
    And bless all gardeners who have wrought
    A resting place like mine!"

  11. Amid the Roses

    by John B. Tabb

    There was laughter 'mid the Roses,
    For it was their natal day;
    And the children in the garden were
    As light of heart as they.

    There were sighs amid the Roses,
    For the night was coming on;
    And the children—weary now of play—
    Were ready to be gone.

    There are tears amid the Roses,
    For the children are asleep;
    And the silence of the garden makes
    The lonely blossoms weep.

  12. Red Rose

    by Raymond Garfield Dandridge

    I plucked a rose, a red rose rare,
    I placed her on a throne
    Within my heart; and there I dare
    To worship her alone.

    An idol, thus, I paid to her
    My constant vigil, love, and care.
    Upon my knees, I prayed to her,
    My whole heart in my prayer.

    Alas! my love, my care, my prayer,
    Failed! failed to keep my treasure fair.
    I saw (my heart filled with despair)
    Her drooping head;

    Her beauty, grace and fragrance flown,
    Her every leaf and petal shorn,
    I gazed in silence—and alone—
    Upon my dead.

  13. Two Little Roses

    by Julia P. Ballard

    One merry summer day
    Two roses were at play;
    All at once they took a notion
    They would like to run away.
    Queer little roses;
    Funny little roses,
    To want to run away!

    They stole along my fence;
    They clambered up my wall;
    They climbed into my window
    To make a morning call!
    Queer little roses;
    Funny little roses,
    To make a morning call!

  14. "He's Killed the May..."

    by Adelaide Crapsey

    "He's killed the May and he's laid her by
    To bear the red rose company."

    Not thou,
    White rose, but thy
    Ensanguined sister is
    The dear companion of my heart's
    Shed blood.

  15. The Rose

    by Jones Very

    The rose thou show'st me has lost all its hue,
    For thou dost seem to me than it less fair;
    For when I look I turn from it to you,
    And feel the flower has been thine only care;
    Thou could'st have grown as freely by its side
    As spring these buds from out the parent stem,

    But thou art from thy Father severed wide,
    And turnest from thyself to look at them,
    Thy words, do not perfume the summer air,
    Nor draw the eye and ear like this thy flower;
    No bees shall make thy lips their daily care,
    And sip the sweets distilled from hour to hour;
    Nor shall new plants from out thy scattered seed,
    O'er many a field the eye with beauty feed.

  16. The Winter Rose

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    O, why do I hold thee, my fair, only rose,
    My bright little treasure—so dear;
    And love thee a thousand times better than those,
    In thousands, that lately were here?

    Because, like a friend, when the many depart,
    As fortune's cold storms gather round,
    Till all from without chills the desolate heart,
    My sweet winter-flower, thou art found!

    Because that for me thou hast budded and blown,
    I look with such fondness on thee;
    That, while I've no other, I call thee my own,
    And feel thou art living for me.

    I know thee. I've studied thy delicate form,
    Till reared from the root to the flower,
    That opens to-day, in a season of storm!
    To brighten so dreary an hour.

    How could I so lavishly scatter my sight
    On those, that the gay summer-sun
    Had nursed with his beams, when I find such delight
    In having and loving but one?

    And while thou dost modestly blush at the praise,
    That thus I in secret bestow,
    It heightens thy beauty, and only can raise
    The strain, high and higher to flow.

    Although thou must droop, as our dearest ones will,
    I'll tenderly watch thy decline;
    And, in thy sad moments, I'll cherish thee still,
    Because thou hast cheered me in mine.

    Then, hallowed like dust of a friend in the tomb,
    I'll lay thy pale leaves safe away,
    Where memory often shall give them the bloom
    That brightened my dark winter day.

  17. Every Rose Hath Its Thorn

    by James McIntyre

    There was a maiden all forlorn,
    She loved a youth, his name was Thorn,
    But he was shy for to disclose
    How he loved dear the sweet May Rose.

    Lustre sweet it would give to Thorn,
    If this fair flower would it adorn,
    Said he all other names above
    Your charming name alone I love.

    Said she of beauty 'tis soon shorn,
    Unless that it is joined to Thorn,
    It very soon doth droop and die,
    And she heaved a gentle sigh.

    Said he we'll wed to morrow morn,
    No more from me you shall be torn,
    For you will banish all my woes,
    And near my heart I'll wear the rose.

    Now little rose buds they are born,
    All clinging to the parent Thorn,
    In grace and beauty each one grows,
    Full worthy of the sweet May Rose.

    Some flowers they only shed their bloom
    In the sweet month of leafy June,
    But May doth bloom each month in year
    A fragrant Rose forever dear.

  18. The Wild-Rose Thicket

    by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts

    Where humming flies frequent, and where
    Pink petals open to the air

    The wild-rose thicket seems to be
    The summer in epitome.

    Amid its gold-green coverts meet
    The late dew and the noonday heat;

    Around it, to the sea-rim harsh,
    The patient levels of the marsh;

    And o'er it pale the heavens bent,
    Half sufferance and half content.

  19. Wild Roses and Snow

    by Mackenzie Bell

    How sweet the sight of roses
    In English lanes of June,
    Where every flower uncloses
    To meet the kiss of noon.

    How strange the sight of roses—
    Roses both sweet and wild—
    Seen where a valley closes
    'Mid mountain heights up-piled.

    Upon whose sides remaining
    Is strewn the purest snow,
    By its chill power restraining
    The tide of spring's soft glow.

    Yet God, who gave the pureness
    To yon fair mountain snow,
    Gives also the secureness
    Whereby these roses blow.

  20. The Rose

    by Ruby Archer

    Know you how roses came to grace the world?
    A feather from an angel's pinion fell,
    A sunbeam caught and kissed it as it whirled,
    And left it blushing on the earth to dwell.

  21. Wild Rose of Colorado

    by Ruby Archer

    O sweet wild rose on the mountain
    Where pine-tree forest shields,
    Why are your petals pinker
    Than roses in lowland fields?

    "I dwell here lonely and pensive,
    All in the shade and hush;
    And I see the sun so rarely,
    I cannot help but blush."

  22. The Withered Rose-Tree

    by Peter Burn

    I was walking through my garden,
    On a sunny morn in May,
    When I found a withered rose-tree,
    Careless hands had thrown away.

    So I took it, and re-set it—
    For its nature well I knew—
    And each day I fondly nurs'd it,
    Till it struck its roots and grew.

    Soon the rose-tree, once so fragile,
    Threw out branches fresh and strong,
    Oft as bow'r it served the linnet,
    Pouring to his mate his song.

    Summer came, in all its fulness,
    And the garden-bloom grew fair,
    But the rose-tree, crown'd with beauty,
    Shone the queen of flowers there.

  23. Nameless Pain

    by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    In my nostrils the summer wind
    Blows the exquisite scent of the rose:
    O for the golden, golden wind,
    Breaking the buds as it goes!
    Breaking the buds and bending the grass,
    And spilling the scent of the rose.

    O wind of the summer morn,
    Tearing the petals in twain,
    Wafting the fragrant soul
    Of the rose through valley and plain,
    I would you could tear my heart to-day
    And scatter its nameless pain!

  24. The Approach Of June, Or The Month Of Roses

    by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

    'Tis blushing on through brier and thorn,
    The wintry winds are still;
    Now softer zephyrs waft along,
    The month of June to fill.

    Soft dews descend upon the flowers
    And kindly rest awhile;
    'Tis sweet to wait upon these hours,
    To see the roses smile.

    How beautiful the charming scene,
    'Tis far surpassing art,
    Like purity in heavenly mien,
    Reviving to the heart.

    Sweet exhalations fill the air,
    While music in the grove,
    Invites my pensive soul to share
    In all the songs of love.

    Put off thy wintry robe my soul,
    Born to rejoice and sing,
    Let gratitude thy lips control
    In praises to your king.

    The soul with innocence possess'd,
    Her incense safe may bear
    To Christ, whose righteousness hath bless'd
    The humblest form of prayer.

    Thus while the roses greet our eyes,
    In all their rich perfume,
    Should our prayers like incense rise,
    Our summer to illume.

  25. The Rose

    by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    Fixed to her necklace, like another gem,
    A rose she wore—the flower June made for her;
    Fairer it looked than when upon the stem,
    And must, indeed, have been much happier.

  26. The First Rose of Summer

    by Oliver Herford

    “Oh dear! is Summer over?”
    I heard a rosebud moan,
    When first her eyes she opened,
    And found she was alone.

    “Oh, why did Summer leave me,
    Little me, belated?
    Where are the other roses?
    I think they might have waited.”

    Soon the little rosebud
    Saw to her surprise
    Other rosebuds opening,
    So she dried her eyes.

    Then I heard her laughing
    Gaily in the sun,
    “I thought Summer was over:
    Why, it ’s just begun!”

  27. 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer

    by Thomas Moore

    'Tis the last rose of summer
    Left blooming alone;
    All her lovely companions
    Are faded and gone;
    No flower of her kindred,
    No rosebud is nigh,
    To reflect back her blushes,
    Or give sigh for sigh.

    I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
    To pine on the stem;
    Since the lovely are sleeping,
    Go, sleep thou with them.
    Thus kindly I scatter
    Thy leaves o'er the bed,
    Where thy mates of the garden
    Lie scentless and dead.

    So soon may I follow,
    When friendships decay,
    And from Love's shining circle
    The gems drop away.
    When true hearts lie withered,
    And fond ones are flown,
    Oh! who would inhabit
    This bleak world alone!

  28. A Bowl of Roses

    by Harriet Warner Higley

    A dozen slender stems of perfect grace—
    A myriad clustering leaves of misty sheen
    That mass and tangle and together lean,
    And shine and shimmer like an ocean space—
    And as the cool sea wave that wins the race,
    Crowned with the early, morn-flushed foam, is seen,
    So rest the blossoms 'gainst this sea of green,
    With blushing heads uplift, or drooping face;
    And each holds in its heart a touch of flame
    That glows and glimmers like the eye of love.
    And each a sweetness that no word can name;
    And over all, a charm, fine and complete
    That thrills the soul, as if from heaven above,
    Through open gates came music low and sweet.

  29. My Wild Rose

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    I had a garden, which I kept
    With busy hands and tender care;
    And once, while carelessly I slept,
    Fanned softly by the drowsy air,
    A wild rose to my garden crept,
    And blossomed there.

    O, sweet surprise. It seemed to me,
    Some fair hand, my heart to bless,
    Had brought it there, from wood or lee.
    It came unsought—'twas loved no less;
    I stooped and touched it tenderly,
    With soft caress.

    I grew to love it passing well;
    While strange exotics, rich and rare,
    With heart of gold and crimson bell,
    Paid grudgingly for constant care,
    My wild rose, as in a woodland dell,
    Bloomed fresh and fair.

    I watered not, I did not prune,
    I tied it not with cord or thong;
    Yet, morn by morn and noon by noon,
    Through days of summer, hot and long,
    And underneath the midnight moon,
    From branches strong—

    Hung clustered blossoms sweet and red;
    And day by day and week by week,
    I trod the path which toward it lead.
    Whate'er my mood, I did not speak,
    But close against bowed my head
    And pressed my cheek.

    I think of it with sudden thrill.
    Now wide lands lie, deep water flows,
    Smiles many a vale, looms many a hill
    Between me and the garden-close;
    Yet fondly I remember still
    My sweet wild rose.

  30. The Wild-Rose

    by Ellen P. Allerton

    Peeping from out the hedges,
    Bending above the brim
    Of the stream that threads the meadows,
    Fringing the forest dim.

    Stealing into my garden
    Waiting not my call;
    Scaling the ancient gateway,
    Creeping under the wall.

    Climbing the mossed enclosure
    Yonder, where willows wave,
    Nestling against the tombstone,
    Clustered on every grave.

    Christened by name, yet blooming
    Silently everywhere;
    Asking for naught' yet giving,
    Lavish as summer air,

    I love thee, rose of the hedges,
    Rose of the streamlet's rim;
    Meek adorner of tombstones,
    Prince of the forest dim.

  31. The Rose

    by Grace Hazard Conkling

    The little rose is dust, my dear,
    The elfin wind is gone
    That sang a song of silver words
    And cooled our hearts with dawn.

    And what is left to hope, my dear,
    Or what is left to say?
    The rose, the little wind and you
    Have gone so far away.

  32. The Hedge-Rose Opens

    by Alfred Noyes

    How passionately it opens after rain,
    And O, how like a prayer
    To those great shining skies! Do they disdain
    A bride so small and fair?
    See the imploring petals, how they part
    And utterly lay bare
    The perishing treasures of that piteous heart
    In wild surrender there.
    What? Would'st thou, too, drink up the Eternal bliss,
    Ecstatically dare,
    O, little bride of God, to invoke His kiss?
    But O, how like a prayer!

  33. The Lily and the Rose

    by William Cowper

    The nymph must lose her female friend
    If more admired than she—
    But where will fierce contention end
    If flowers can disagree?

    Within the garden's peaceful scene
    Appeared two lovely foes,
    Aspiring to the rank of queen,
    The Lily and the Rose.

    The Rose soon reddened into rage
    And, swelling with disdain,
    Appealed to many a poet's page
    To prove her right to reign.

    The Lily's height bespoke command,
    A fair imperial flower;
    She seemed designed for Flora's hand,
    The sceptre of her power.

    This civil bickering and debate
    The goddess chanced to hear,
    And flew to save, ere yet too late,
    The pride of the parterre.

    Yours is, she said, the nobler hue,
    And yours the statelier mien,
    And, till a third surpasses you,
    Let each be deemed a queen.

    Thus soothed and reconciled, each seeks
    The fairest British fair;
    The seat of empire is her cheeks,
    Thy reign united there.

  34. Hope is like a harebell

    by Christina Georgina Rossetti

    Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth,
    Love is like a rose the joy of all the earth;
    Faith is like a lily lifted high and white,
    Love is like a lovely rose the world’s delight;
    Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth,
    But the rose with all its thorns excels them both.

    So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

    – 1 Corinthians 13:13
  35. There ’s nothing like the rose

    by Christina Georgina Rossetti

    The lily has an air,
    And the snowdrop a grace,
    And the sweetpea a way,
    And the heartsease a face,—
    Yet there ’s nothing like the rose
    When she blows.

  36. She sets the world on fire

    by Christina Georgina Rossetti

    The lily has a smooth stalk,
    Will never hurt your hand;
    But the rose upon her briar
    Is lady of the land.

    There ’s sweetness in an apple tree,
    And profit in the corn;
    But lady of all beauty
    Is a rose upon a thorn.

    When with moss and honey
    She tips her bending briar,
    And half unfolds her glowing heart,
    She sets the world on fire.

  37. The Humming Bird

    by Edwin Markham

    Tell me, O Rose, what thing it is
    That now appears, now vanishes?
    Surely it took its fire-green hue
    From daybreaks that it glittered through;
    Quick, for this sparkle of the dawn
    Glints through the garden and is gone!
    What was the message, Rose, what word:
    Delight foretold, or hope deferred

  38. Roses

    by Joyce Kilmer

    I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring,
    For I would make a posy, a posy for the King.
    I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be,
    From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red rose tree.

    But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet
    I found He had His roses a million times more sweet.
    There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand,
    And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the land.

    Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told,
    That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold.
    Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red,
    A little wreath of roses around His radiant head.

    A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face,
    And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery place.
    He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I,
    And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die.

  39. Ashes of Roses

    by Elaine

    Soft on the sunset sky
    Bright daylight closes,
    Leaving, when light doth die,
    Pale hues that mingling lie—
    Ashes of roses.

    When love's warm sun is set,
    Love's brightness closes;
    Eyes with hot tears are wet,
    In hearts there linger yet
    Ashes of roses.

    Come, and I will show you what is beautiful. It is a rose fully blown. See how she sits upon her mossy stem, the queen of flowers. Her leaves glow like fire. The air is filled with her sweet odor. She is the delight of every eye.

    – John Keble
    The Creator

  40. Go, Lovely Rose

    by Edmund Waller

    She who thinks a noble heart
    Better than a noble mien—
    Honors virtue more than art,
    Though 'tis less in fashion seen—
    Whatsoe'er her fortune be,
    She's the bride—the wife—for me!

    She who deems that inward grace
    Far surpasses outward show,
    She who values less the face
    Than that charm the soul can throw,—
    Whatsoe'er her fortune be,
    She's the bride—the wife—for me!

    She who knows the heart requires
    Something more than lips of dew—
    That when Love's brief rose expires,
    Love itself dies with it too—
    Whatsoe'er her fortune be,
    She's the bride—the wife—for me!

  41. Roses

    by George Eliot. (Roses is an excerpt from The Spanish Gypsy).

    You love the roses—so do I. I wish
    The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
    From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
    Then all the valley would be pink and white
    And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
    As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
    Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once!

  42. Promise

    by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    I grew a rose within a garden fair
    And tending it, with more than loving care,
    I thought how, with the glory of its bloom,
    I should the darkness of my life illume;
    And watching, ever smiled to see the lusty bud,
    Drink freely in the summer sun to tinct its blood.

    My rose began to open, and its hue
    Was sweet to me as to it, sun and dew;
    I watched it taking on its ruddy flame
    Until the day of perfect blooming came,
    Then, hasted I with smiles, to find it blushing red—
    Too late! Some thoughtless child had plucked my rose and fled!

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