For works with similar titles, see Roses.
4648365Poems — RosesFrances M. Sharpless
ROSES
When my darling lay so still and white,
Before they closed the coffin lid,
I gathered blush roses, pure and bright,
And with her their dewy sweetness hid.

They died in the fold of her pulseless hand,
And many others have graced the tree;
My heart's rose blooms in a fairer land;
No other blossom hath bloomed for me.

No winds reach her, no wintry blight
Shall check her unfolding to perfect grace;—
She waits my coming, my heart's delight,
To bless me again with her angel face.

No thievish hand shall gather my rose,
To crush her life out in slow degree,
At Christ's feet lowly she blooms and grows,
And I wait and pray for the grace to be.

She is not lost to me, she my sweet,
My fair May blossom, her mother's pride;—
For the delicate print of her rosy feet,
To her own home, is my sure, dear guide.

Roses fade and their bloom renew
All as the varied seasons roll;
But in God's own sunlight, and smile and dew,
Shall she blossom, the Rose of my Soul.