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When You accept the rose, you must also accept the thorns.
Far off, most secret, and invilate 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.
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
Proud be the rose, with rain and dews her head impearling.
The smiles of God's goodness.
The rosebuds lay their crimson lips together.
How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flower.
The glory of April and May!
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.
Yet the Rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field;
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
Go, lovely Rose!
Tell her that wastes her time and me
That now she knows.
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
The coming spring would first appear, and all this place with roses strew, if busy feet would let them grow.
I saw the rose-grove blushing in pride,
I gathered the blushing rose--and sigh'd--
I come from the rose-grove, mother,
I come from the grove of roses.