O rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,
But pale, read more

O rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,--
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

Go pretty rose, go to my fair,
Go tell her all I fain would dare,
Tell her read more

Go pretty rose, go to my fair,
Go tell her all I fain would dare,
Tell her of hope; tell her of spring,
Tell her of all I fain would sing,
Oh! were I like thee, so fair a thing.

And thus, what can we do,
Poor rose and poet too,
Who both antedate our mission
read more

And thus, what can we do,
Poor rose and poet too,
Who both antedate our mission
In an unprepared season?

Till the rose's lips grow pale
With her sighs.

Till the rose's lips grow pale
With her sighs.

The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me.

The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me.

Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they wither.

Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they wither.

Red as a rose of Harpocrate.

Red as a rose of Harpocrate.

'Twas a yellow rose,
By that south window of the little house,
My cousin Romney gathered with read more

'Twas a yellow rose,
By that south window of the little house,
My cousin Romney gathered with his hand
On all my birthdays, for me. save the last;
And then I shook the tree too rough, too rough,
For roses to stay after.

She wore a wreath of roses,
The night that first we met.

She wore a wreath of roses,
The night that first we met.