Loveliest of lovely things are they
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its read more

Loveliest of lovely things are they
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

Thus to the Rose, the Thistle:
Why art thou not of thistle-breed?
Of use thou'dst, then, be read more

Thus to the Rose, the Thistle:
Why art thou not of thistle-breed?
Of use thou'dst, then, be truly,
For asses might upon thee feed.

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

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

I wish I might a rose-bud grow
And thou wouldst cull me from the bower.
To place read more

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.

Rose were sette of swete savour,
With many roses that thei bere.

Rose were sette of swete savour,
With many roses that thei bere.

There is no gathering the rose without being pricked by the
thorns.

There is no gathering the rose without being pricked by the
thorns.

You smell a rose through a fence:
If two should smell it, what matter?

You smell a rose through a fence:
If two should smell it, what matter?

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.

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

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