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ROSES IN POEMS & POETRY

A Collection of Rose Poems and Poetry from  Famous Poets and Authors.

 A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns .  1759-1796

 O my Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my Luve, Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.

 

 A Little Budding Rose by Emily Bronte.  1818-1848

 It was a little budding rose, Round like a fairy globe, And shyly did its leaves unclose Hid in their mossy robe, But sweet was the slight and spicy smell It breathed from its heart invisible.

The rose is blasted, withered, blighted, Its root has felt a worm, And like a heart beloved and slighted, Failed, faded, shrunk its form. Bud of beauty, bonnie flower, I stole thee from thy natal bower.

I was the worm that withered thee, Thy tears of dew all fell for me; Leaf and stalk and rose are gone, Exile earth they died upon. Yes, that last breath of balmy scent With alien breezes sadly blent!

 

Nobody Knows This Little Rose by Emily Dickinson.  1830-1886

 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!

A White Rose. By John Boyle O'Reilly. 1844-1890

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

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

   

 Tis the Last Rose of Summer by Thomas Moore.  1779-1852

 Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone: No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away. When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

 

Asking For Roses by Robert Frost.  1874-1963

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master, With doors that none but the wind ever closes, Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster; It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.

I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary; 'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.' 'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy, 'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'

So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly There in the hush of the wood that reposes, And turn and go up to the open door boldly, And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.

'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?' 'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses. 'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you! 'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.

'A word with you, that of the singer recalling-- Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is A flower unplucked is but left to the falling, And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'

We do not loosen our hands' intertwining (Not caring so very much what she supposes), There when she comes on us mistily shining And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

 

Blue Roses by Rudyard Kipling.  1865-1936

 

Roses red and roses white Plucked I for my love's delight. She would none of all my posies-- Bade me gather her blue roses.

Half the world I wandered through, Seeking where such flowers grew. Half the world unto my quest Answered me with laugh and jest.

Home I came at wintertide, But my silly love had died Seeking with her latest breath Roses from the arms of Death.

It may be beyond the grave She shall find what she would have. Mine was but an idle quest-- Roses white and red are best!

 

THE SECRET ROSE by William Butler Yeats.  1865-1939

 

Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose, Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre, Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise In Druid vapour and make the torches dim; Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him Who met Fand walking among flaming dew By a grey shore where the wind never blew, And lost the world and Emer for a kiss; And him who drove the gods out of their liss, And till a hundred moms had flowered red Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead; And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods: And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods, And sought through lands and islands numberless years, Until he found, with laughter and with tears, A woman of so shining loveliness That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress, A little stolen tress. I, too, await The hour of thy great wind of love and hate. When shall the stars be blown about the sky, Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die? Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows, Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?

 

The Rose in the Deeps of His Heart. By William Butler Yeats

 

 All things uncomely and broken, all things worn-out and old, The cry of a child by the roadway, the creak of a lumbering cart,

The heavy steps of the ploughman, splashing the wintry mould, Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told; I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,

With the earth and the sky and the water, remade, like a casket of gold For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.

BE MY VALENTINE ROSE

Red roses were her favorites. Her name was also Rose. Every year her husband sent them, tied with pretty bows. The year he died, the roses were delivered to her door. The card said, “Be my Valentine,” like all the years before.

Each year he sent her roses, and the note would always say, “I love you even more this year, than last year on this day. My love for you will always grow, with every passing year.” She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear.

She thought, he ordered roses in advance before this day. Her loving husband did not know that he would pass away. He always liked to do things early, way before the time. Then, if he got too busy, everything would work out fine.

She cut the stems, and placed them in a very special vase. Then, placed the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face. She would sit for hours, in her husband’s favorite chair. While staring at his picture, and looking at the roses there.

A year went by, and it was hard to live without her mate. With loneliness and solitude, that had become her fate. Then, the very hour, as on Valentines before. The doorbell rang, and there were roses, sitting by her door.

She brought the roses in, and then just looked at them in shock. Then, went to get the telephone, to call the florist shop. The owner answered, and she asked him, if he would explain, Why would someone do this to her, causing her such pain?

“I know your husband passed away, more than a year ago,” The owner said, “I knew you would call, and you would want to know. “The flowers you received today, were paid for in advance. Your husband always planned ahead, he left nothing to chance.”

“There is a standing order, which I have on file down here, and he has paid, well in advance, you will get the roses every year. There also is another thing, which I think you should know, He wrote a special little card…he did this many years ago.

Then, should ever, I find out that he is no longer here, That is the card…that should be sent, to you the following year.” She thanked him and hung up the phone, her tears was now flowing hard. Her fingers were shaking, as she slowly reached to get the card.

Inside the card, she saw that he had written her a note. Then, as she stared in total silence, this is what he wrote… “Hello my love, I know it is been a year since I have been gone, I hope it has not been too hard for you to overcome.

I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real. For if it was the other way, I know how I would feel. The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life. I loved you more than words could say, you were the perfect wife.

You were my friend and lover, you fulfilled my every need. I know it is only been a year, but please try not to grieve. I want you to be happy, even when you shed your tears. That is why the roses will be sent to you for years.

When you get these roses, think of all the happiness, that we had together, and how both of us were blessed. I have always loved you and I know I always will. However, my love, you must go on, you have some living still.

Please… try to find happiness, while living out your days. I know it is not easy, but I hope you find some ways. The roses will come every year, and they will only stop, when your door is not answered, when the florist stops to knock.

He will come five times that day, in case you have gone out. But after his last visit, he will know without a doubt, to take the roses to the place, where I have instructed him, and place the roses where we are, together once again.”

by Line Kjergaard


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