Petals Of The Mountain Rose

Petals of the mountain rose
Fall now and then,
To the sound of the waterfall?

by Matsuo Basho.

Du Var Den Fine Rose

Du var den fine Rose,
Blegrød i Sommerluften,
Og jeg var Atmosphæren,
Som fyldte sig med Duften.

by Emil Aarestrup.

The Rose That Blushes Rosy Red

The rose that blushes rosy red,
She must hang her head;
The lily that blows spotless white,
She may stand upright.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

Only a Rose! Waif of a day is it-
So brief a thing, indeed!
Yet all the mystery of life is writ
Within it, could we read.

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

I Have But One Rose In The World

I have but one rose in the world,
And my one rose stands a-drooping:
Oh, when my single rose is dead
There'll be but thorns for stooping.

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

The Angler Rose, He Took His Rod

THE angler rose, he took his rod,
He kneeled and made his prayers to God.
The living God sat overhead:
The angler tripped, the eels were fed

by Robert Louis Stevenson.

The Rose With Such A Bonny Blush

The rose with such a bonny blush,
What has the rose to blush about?
If it's the sun that makes her flush,
What's in the sun to flush about?

by Christina Georgina Rossetti.

The rose blooms and knows not why

The rose blooms and knows not why,
Unencumbered by itself, oblivious to the eye

English version by Gabriel Rosenstock
Original Language German

by Angelus Silesius.

Rose And Thistle

As grows the rose
The thistle grows-
Each to its purpose
God He knows:
But who may deem
The lordlier scheme-
The weed unsung,
Or the poet’s theme?

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

I intended an Ode,
And it turned to a Sonnet.
It began à la mode,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose cross'd the road
In her latest new bonnet; I intended an Ode;
And it turned to a Sonnet.

by Henry Austin Dobson.

The Sun Has Wept Rose

The sun has wept rose in the shell of your ears,
The world has rolled white from your back,
Your thighs:
The sea has stained rust at the crimson of your breasts,
And Man had bled black at your sovereign side.

by Arthur Rimbaud.

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.

by William Blake.

A Wind That Rose

A Wind that rose
Though not a Leaf
In any Forest stirred
But with itself did cold engage
Beyond the Realm of Bird -
A Wind that woke a lone Delight
Like Separation's Swell
Restored in Arctic Confidence
To the Invisible -

by Emily Dickinson.

Ah, what avails the sceptred race!
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee.

by Walter Savage Landor.

She Sped As Petals Of A Rose


She sped as Petals of a Rose
Offended by the Wind—
A frail Aristocrat of Time
Indemnity to find—
Leaving on nature—a Default
As Cricket or as Bee—
But Andes in the Bosoms where
She had begun to lie—

by Emily Dickinson.

If I Should Cease To Bring A Rose


If I should cease to bring a Rose
Upon a festal day,
'Twill be because beyond the Rose
I have been called away—

If I should cease to take the names
My buds commemorate—
'Twill be because Death's finger
Claps my murmuring lip!

by Emily Dickinson.

In einem Buche blätternd, fand
Ich eine Rose welk, zerdrückt,
Und weiß auch nicht mehr, wessen Hand
Sie einst für mich gepflückt.

Ach, mehr und mehr im Abendhauch
Verweht Erinnrung; bald zerstiebt
Mein Erdenlos, dann weiß ich auch
Nicht mehr, wer mich geliebt.

by Nikolaus Franz Niembsch Edler von Strehlenau.

The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

by John Boyle O'Reilly.

THE red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
O, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips

by John Boyle O'Reilly.

With A La France Rose

For a love with a light that can fashion
A glory that knows not eclipse,
What voice, when its uttermost passion
Sets of silence the seal on the lips?

Lo, here on the leaves of the blossom
Behold it, in symbol and sign,
And I send it, a throb from my bosom,
Beloved, to thine!

by Ina D. Coolbrith.

My Pretty Rose Tree

A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said 'I've a pretty rose tree,'
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.

Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.

by William Blake.

Mauve, Black, And Rose

Mauve, black, and rose,
The veils of the jewel, and she, the jewel, a rose.

First, the pallor of mauve,
A soft flood flowing about the body I love.

Then, the flush of the rose,
A hedge of roses about the mystical rose.

Last, the black, and at last
The feet that I love, and the way that my love has passed.

by Arthur Symons.

I Planted A Rose Tree

I planted a rose tree in my garden,
In early days when the year was young;
I thought it would bear me roses, roses,
While nights were dewy and days were long.

It bore me once, and a white rose only--
A lovely rose with petals of light;
Like the moon in heaven, supreme and lonely;
And the lightning struck it one summer night.

by Mathilde Blind.

The Violet And The Rose

The violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day,
Is longer sweet than roses of red June;
Set me sweet violets along my way,
And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon.
Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two?
Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through?
Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose?
Why dies one sweetness when another blows?

by Augusta Davies Webster.

The Bee And The Rose

'You wont!' the Rose's accents ring;
'I will!' the Golden Bee's are ringing;
And tho' the winds, to aid her, spring,
Soon with the breeze-tost bloom he's

His prize secured, away he goes,
At which anon, in rage the rarest;
'Come back thou villain!' cries the Rose;
'Come once more kiss me, if thou darest!'

by Joseph Skipsey.

To ----, With A Rose

I asked my heart to say
Some word whose worth my love's devoir might pay
Upon my Lady's natal day.

Then said my heart to me:
`Learn from the rhyme that now shall come to thee
What fits thy Love most lovingly.'

This gift that learning shows;
For, as a rhyme unto its rhyme-twin goes,
I send a rose unto a Rose.

by Sidney Lanier.

Nobody Knows This Little Rose


Nobody knows this little Rose—
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it—
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey—
On its breast to lie—
Only a Bird will wonder—
Only a Breeze will sigh—
Ah Little Rose—how easy
For such as thee to die!

by Emily Dickinson.

The Little Native Rose

There is a lasting little flower,
That everybody knows,
Yet none has thought to think about
The little Native Rose.

The wattle and the waratah—
The world has heard of those;
But who, outside Australia, kens
The little Native Rose.

Yet first for faint, far off perfume,
That lives where memory goes;
And first of all for fadelessness—
The little Native Rose.

by Henry Lawson.

The Rose And The Bee

IF I were a bee and you were a rose,
Would you let me in when the gray wind blows?
Would you hold your petals wide apart,
Would you let me in to find your heart,
If you were a rose?

"If I were a rose and you were a bee,
You should never go when you came to me,
I should hold my love on my heart at last,
I should close my leaves and keep you fast,
If you were a bee."

by Sara Teasdale.

Summer Has Come Without The Rose

Has summer come without the rose,
Or left the bird behind?
Is the blue changed above thee,
O world! or am I blind?
Will you change every flower that grows,
Or only change this spot,
Where she who said, I love thee,
Now says, I love thee not?

The skies seemed true above thee,
The rose true on the tree;
The bird seemed true the summer through,
But all proved false to me.

by Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy.

Dem holden Lenzgeschmeide,
Der Rose, meiner Freude,
Die schon gebeugt und blasser
Vom heißen Strahl der Sonnen,
Reich' ich den Becher Wasser
Aus tiefem Bronnen.
Du Rose meines Herzens!
Vom stillen Strahl des Schmerzens
Bist du gebeugt und blasser;
Ich möchte dir zu Füßen,
Wie dieser Blume Wasser,
Still meine Seele gießen!
Könnt ich dann auch nicht sehen
Dich auferstehen.

by Nikolaus Franz Niembsch Edler von Strehlenau.

White Rose And Red

WHITE rose sighed in the morn,
Red rose laughed in the noon,
And 'Sweetest sweetness is ended soon,'
And 'Never heed for the thorn.'

'Love's hour passes away,'
White rose breathed in my ear;
Red rose whispered 'No need to fear;
The day is enough for day.'

Shall I heed white or red?
Shall I heed both aright?
Sighing and laughing, red and white,
'Tis 'Love her' they both have said.

by Augusta Davies Webster.

She Rose To His Requirement


She rose to His Requirement—dropt
The Playthings of Her Life
To take the honorable Work
Of Woman, and of Wife—

If ought She missed in Her new Day,
Of Amplitude, or Awe—
Or first Prospective—Or the Gold
In using, wear away,

It lay unmentioned—as the Sea
Develop Pearl, and Weed,
But only to Himself—be known
The Fathoms they abide—

by Emily Dickinson.

The Rose Of England

At morn the rosebud greets the sun
And sheds the evening dew,
Expanding ere the day is done,
In bloom of radiant hue
And when the sun his rest hath found,
Rose-Petals strew the garden round!

Thus that blest Isle that owns the Rose
From mist and darkness came,
A million glories to disclose,
And spread BRITANNIA'S name;
And ere Life's Sun shall leave the blue,
ENGLAND shall reign the whole world through!

by Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

The December Rose

Here's a rose that blows for Chloe,
Fair as ever a rose in June was,
Now the garden's silent, snowy,
Where the burning summer noon was.

In your garden's summer glory
One poor corner, shelved and shady,
Told no rosy, radiant story,
Grew no rose to grace its lady.

What shuts sun out shuts out snow too;
From his nook your secret lover
Shows what slighted roses grow to
When the rose you chose is over.

by Edith Nesbit.

If I were gusty April now,
How I would blow at laughing Rose;
I'd make her ribbons slip their knots,
And all her hair come loose.

If I were merry April now,
How I would pelt her cheeks with showers;
I'd make carnations, rich and warm,
Of her vermillion flowers.

Since she will laugh in April's face
No matter how he rains or blows --
Then O that I wild April were,
To play with laughing Rose.

by William Henry Davies.

When The Rose Is Gone

When the rose is gone and the garden faded
you will no longer hear the nightingale's song.
The Beloved is all; the lover just a veil.
The Beloved is living; the lover a dead thing.
If love withholds its strengthening care,
the lover is left like a bird without care,
the lover is left like a bird without wings.
How will I be awake and aware
if the light of the Beloved is absent?
Love wills that this Word be brought forth

by Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi.

Oh haste while roses bloom below,
Oh haste while pale and bright above
The sun and moon alternate glow,
To pluck the rose of love.

Yea, give the morning to the lark,
The nightingale its glimmering grove,
Give moonlight to the hungry dark,
But to man's heart give love!

Then haste while still the roses blow,
And pale and bright in heaven above
The sun and moon alternate glow,
Pluck, pluck the rose of love.

by Mathilde Blind.

The Tomb And The Rose

The Tomb said to the Rose :
Flower of Love, where goes
Each tear which Dawn upon thy cheeks doth
The Rose said to the Tomb :
What makest in thy gloom
Impenetrable of the countless dead?
Said the Rose : O Tomb, of all these tears,
In my recesses ere the sun appears,
1 make a perfume which the gods will prize.
Said the Tomb : O plaintive Flower,
Of every mortal I devour
An angel do I make for Paradise.

by Ameen Rihani.

The September Rose

To sighs of morning air, that froze,-
(With her lips opened for a say),
How curiously has smiled the rose
On a September fleeting day!

And how has she ever dared
To greet, with air of springy queens,
The single blue-tit, in the bare
Shrubs fleshing in the orb of wings;

To bloom with steadfast dream that later,
Just leaving her cold bed in rest,
She’ll cling, the last and dissipated,
To a young hostess’s charming breast!

by Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet.