ROSE
Je ne suis pas la rose, mais j'ai vecu pres d'elle.
I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.
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| topic = Rose | page = 679
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Till the rose's lips grow pale
With her sighs.
Rose Terry Cooke—ReveDuMidi.
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.
Dionysius.
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?
Julia C. R. Dorr—The Clay to the Rose.
It never will rain roses: when we want
To have more roses we must plant more trees.
George Eliot—Spanish Gypsy. Bk. III.
| seealso = (See also Loveman under Rain)
e
Oh, raise your deep-fringed lids that close
To wrap you in some sweet dream's thrall;
am the spectre of the rose
You wore but last night at the ball.
Gautier—Spectre of the Rose. (From the
French.) See Werner's Readings No. 8.
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.
R. W. Gilder—The White and Red Rose.
Pfliicke Rosen, weil sie bluhn,
Morgen ist nicht heut!
Keine Stunde lass entfliehn.
Morgen ist nicht heut.
Gather roses while they bloom,
To-morrow is yet far away.
Moments lost have no room
In to-morrow or to-day.
Gleim—Benutzung der Zeii.
| seealso = (See also Herrick under Time)
| topic = Rose
| page = 679
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{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>It is written on the rose
In its glory's full array:
Read what those buds disclose—
"Passing away."
Felicia D. Hemans—Passing Away.
ROSE 679
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.
Roses at first were white,
'Till they co'd not agree,
Whether my Sappho's breast
Or they more white sho'd be.
| author = Herrick
| work = Hesperides. Found in Dodd's Epir
But ne'er the rose without the thorn.
| author = Herrick
| work = The Rose.
He came and took me by the band,
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.
Ralph Hodgson—The Mystery.
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.
Hood—Ballad. It was not in the Winter.
Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street
Till—think of that who find life so sweet!—
She hates the smell of roses.
Hood—Miss Kilmansegg.
And the guelder rose
In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped,
Her wealth about her feet.
Jean Ingelow—Laurance. Pt. III.
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.
Jean Ingelow—The Four Bridges. St. 61.
is The vermeil rose had blown
In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown
Like spiked aloe.
Keats—Endymion. Bk. I. L. 694.
But the rose leaves herself upon the brier,
For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
Keats—On Fame.
Woo on, with odour wooing me,
Faint rose with fading core;
For God's rose-thought, that blooms in thee,
Will bloom forevermore.
George MacDonald—Songs of the Summer
Night. Pt. III.
Mais elle fitait du mond, ou les plus belles choses
Ont lepiredestin;
Et Rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les roses,
L'espace d'un matin.
