Poems (Terry, 1861)/A rosary

by Rose Terry Cooke

A ROSARY.

Roses, roses, roses,
 All the world over;
Daisies in the mowing,
 On the hill-side clover;
But the sweet sad roses
 And the mad bee-lover
  Come in June.

Roses, roses, roses,
 Red in the grasses,
Snowy in the garden.
 When the hot sun passes
Then the singing summer dies,
 And snow the rose surpasses,
  In the moon.

Oh, the fair sad roses!
 Sad for their loving,
Left alone to rain-drops,
 When the bee goes roving,
And their honey-sweet lips
 To no long kiss moving,
  Only die!

Oh, the love-red roses!
 With their golden centres,
Sweeter than spices;
 Where the south-wind enters,
And on the bee's track.
 The butterfly ventures
  With his lie!