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?

Red as a rose of Harpocrate.

Red as a rose of Harpocrate.

A white rosebud for a guerdon.

A white rosebud for a guerdon.

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.

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.

Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they wither.

Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they wither.