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[ Also see Flowers Musk Roses Plants Sweetbrier Roses Wild Roses ]

For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright!
  I have twined them in my sister's locks
    That are hid in the dust from sight.
      - Phoebe Cary

Roses were sette of sweete savour,
  With many roses that thei here.
      - Geoffrey Chaucer

Rose were sette of swete savour,
  With many roses that thei bere.
      - Geoffrey Chaucer, The Romaunt of the Rose

I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.
  [Fr., Je ne suis pas la rose, mais j'ai vecu pres d'elle.]
      - attributed to Henri Benjamin Constant de Rebecque,
        by Hayward in "Introduction to Letter of Mrs. Piozzi"

Till the rose's lips grow pale
  With her sighs.
      - Rose Terry Cooke, Reve Du Midi

I wish I might a rose-bud grow
  And thou wouldst cull me from the bower.
    To place me on that breast of snow
      Where I should bloom a wintry flower.
      - Dionysius of Chalcus

A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet, just brought from out the garden's cool retreat.
      - Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr

O beautiful, royal Rose,
  O Rose, so fair and sweet!
    Queen of the garden art thou,
      And I--the Clay at thy feet!
        . . . .
          Yet, O thou beautiful Rose!
            Queen rose, so fair and sweet,
              What were lover or crown to thee
                Without the Clay at thy feet?
      - Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr,
        The Clay to the Rose

Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
      - John Dryden

It never rains roses; when we want more roses, we must plant more trees.
      - George Eliot (pseudonym of Mary Ann Evans Cross)

You love the roses--so do I. I wish
  The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
    From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
      Then all the valleys would be pink and white,
        And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
          As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
            Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once.
              Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go,
                Will it rain roses?
      - George Eliot (pseudonym of Mary Ann Evans Cross)

It never will rain roses: when we want
  To have more roses we must plant more trees.
      - George Eliot (pseudonym of Mary Ann Evans Cross),
        The Spanish Gypsy (bk. III)

The gathered rose and the stolen heart can charm but for a day.
      - Emma Catherine Embury

Oh, raise your deep-fringed lids that close
  To wrap you in some sweet dream's thrall;
    I am the spectre of the rose
      You wore but last night at the ball.
      - Pierre Jules Theophile Gautier,
        Spectre of the Rose, from the French

In Heaven's happy bowers
  There blossom two flowers,
    One with fiery glow
      And one as white as snow;
        While lo! before them stands,
          With pale and trembling hands,
            A spirit who must choose
              One, and one refuse.
      - Richard Watson Gilder,
        The White and Red Rose

Gather roses while they bloom,
  To-morrow is yet far away.
    Moments lost have no room
      In to-morrow or to-day.
        [Ger., Pflucke Rosen, weil sie bluhn,
          Morgen ist nicht heut!
            Keine Stunde lass entfliehn.
              Morgen ist nicht heut.]
      - Johann William Ludwig Gleim,
        Benutzung der Zeit

The rose is wont with pride to swell, and ever seeks to rise.
      - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

It is written on the rose
  In its glory's full array:
    Read what those buds disclose--
      "Passing away."
      - Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans, Passing Away

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
  Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,
    Thy root is even in the grave,
      And thou must die.
      - George Herbert, Vertue (st. 2)

Roses at first were white.
  'Till they co'd not agree,
    Whether my Sappho's breast
      Or they more white sho'd be.
      - Robert Herrick, Hesperides,
        found in Dodd's "Epigrammatists"

But ne'er the rose without the thorn.
      - Robert Herrick, The Rose

He came and took me by the hand,
  Up to a red rose tree,
    He kept His meaning to Himself,
      But gave a rose to me.
        I did not pray Him to lay bare
          The mystery to me,
            Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,
              And His own face to see.
      - Ralph Hodgson, The Mystery

It was not in the winter
  Our loving lot was cast:
    It was the time of roses
      We pluck'd them as we pass'd.
      - Thomas Hood,
        Ballad--It was not in the Winter

Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street
  Till--think of that who find life so sweet!--
    She hates the smell of roses!
      - Thomas Hood, Miss Kilmansegg

And the guelder rose
  In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped,
    Her wealth about her feet.
      - Jean Ingelow, Laurance (pt. III)

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