Chain of Roses
A Rose Message
The Highest Rose
A Rose MessageThe Highest Rose
Upon Roses
Under a lawn, than skies more clear,
A Dead Rose
O Rose! who dares to name thee?
The breeze that used to blow thee
The sun that used to smite thee,
The dew that used to wet thee,
The fly that lit upon thee,
The bee that once did suck thee,
The heart doth recognise thee,
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
Women And Roses
I dream of a red-rose tree.
Round and round, like a dance of snow
Dear rose, thy term is reached,
Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,
Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed,
Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth
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by Robert Herrick
Some ruffled Roses nestling were,
And snugging there, they seem'd to lie
As in a flowery nunnery;
They blush'd, and look'd more fresh than flowers
Quickened of late by pearly showers;
And all, because they were possest
But of the heat of Julia's breast,
Which, as a warm and moisten'd spring,
Gave them their ever-flourishing.
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet;
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,---
Kept seven years in a drawer---thy titles shame thee.
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,---
If breathing now,---unsweetened would forego thee.
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,---
f shining now,---with not a hue would light thee.
And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,---
If dropping now,---would darken where it met thee.
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,---
If lighting now,---would coldly overrun thee.
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,---
If passing now,---would blindly overlook thee.
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,---
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!---
Lie still upon this heart---which breaks below thee!
by Robert Browning
And which of its roses three
Is the dearest rose to me?
In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go
Floating the women faded for ages,
Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.
Then follow women fresh and gay,
Living and loving and loved to-day.
Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:
Bees pass it unimpeached.
You, great shapes of the antique time!
How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,
Break my heart at your feet to please you?
Oh, to possess and be possessed!
Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast!
Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,
Drink but once and die!---In vain, the same fashion,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
Thy cup is ruby-rimmed,
Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.
The bee sucked in by the hyacinth,
So will I bury me while burning,
Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,
Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!
Fold me fast where the cincture slips,
Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,
Girdle me for once! But no---the old measure,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
Dear rose without a thorn,
Thy bud's the babe unborn:
First streak of a new morn.
Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!
What is far conquers what is near.
Roses will bloom nor want beholders,
Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders.
What shall arrive with the cycle's change?
A novel grace and a beauty strange.
I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her,
Shaped her to his mind!---Alas! in like manner
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
The Gullfeathers Inn
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