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.
Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
| author = Pope
| work = Essay on Man.
| place = Ep. I. L. 200.
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.
| author = Pope
| work = Rape of the Lock. Canto IV. L. 158.
| seealso = (See also Chamberlayne under Obscurity)
| topic = Rose
| page = 681
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>And when the parent-rose decays and dies,
With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise.
Prior—Celia to Damon.
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.
Thos. Buchanan Read—The New Pastoral.
Bk. VII. L. 51.
Die Rose bluht nicht ohne Dornen. Ja: wenn
nur aber nicht die Dornen die Rose iiberlebten.
The rose does not bloom without thorns.
True: but would that the thorns did not outlive the rose.
Jean Paul Richter—Titan. Zykel 105.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic = Rose
| page = 681
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 5
| text = The rose saith in the dewy morn,
I am most fair;
Yet all my loveliness is born
Upon a thorn.
Christina G. Rossetti—Consider the Lilies
of the Field.
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.
Christina G. Rossetti—Symbols.
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.
Scott—Lady of the Lake. Canto IV.
From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.
Henry VI. Pt. I. Act II. Sc. 4. L. 30.
l?
Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose,
With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.
Henry VI. Pt. II. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 254.
There will we make our peds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies.
Merry Wives of Windsor. Act III. Sc. 1. L.
19. Song.
| seealso = (See also {{sc|Marlowe)
ROSE
Hoary-headed frosts
Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
Midsummer Night's Dream. Act II. Sc. 1.
L. 107.
The red rose on triumphant brier.
Midsummer Night's Dream. Act III.
L. 96.
Sc. 1.
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.
Shelley—The Sensitive Plant. Pt. I.
Should this fair rose offend thy sight,
Placed in i hy bosom bare,
'Twill blush to find itself less white,
And turn Lancastrian-there.
James Somerville—The White Rose. Other
versions of traditional origin.
| author =
| work =
| place =
| note =
| topic = Rose
| page = 681
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num = 15
| text = 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.
Harriet Prescott Spofford—Flower Songs.
The Rose.
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!
Harriet Prescott Spofford—A Sigh.
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.
Swinburne—The Year of the Rose.
And half in shade and half in sun;
The Rose sat in her bower,
With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart.
Bayard Taylor—Poems of the Orient. The
Poet in the East. St. 5.
And is there any moral shut
Within the bosom of the rose?
| author = Tennyson
| work = The Day-Dream. Moral.
The fairest things have fleetest end:
Their scent survives their close,
But the rose's scent is bitterness
To him that loved the rose!
Francis Thompson—Daisy. St. 10.
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.
Gil Vicente—/ Come from the Rose-grove,
Mother. Trans, by John Bowring.
