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Flowers-Rose: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
A rose as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone: A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known.— WILLIAM BROWNE — Visions. Sonnet V.
And thus, what can we do, Poor rose and poet too, Who both antedate our mission In an unprepared season?— E. B. BROWNING — A Lay of the Early
Rose. A white rosebud for a guerdon.— E. B. BROWNING — Romance of the
Swan's Nest. "For if I wait," said she, "Till time for roses be,- For the moss-rose and the musk-rose, Maiden-blush and royal-dusk rose, - "What glory then for me In such a company?- Roses plenty, roses plenty And one nightingale for twenty?"— E. B. BROWNING — A Lay of the Early
Rose. 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.— E. B. BROWNING — A Dead Rose.
This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples,— E. B. BROWNING — Aurora Leigh. Bk. II.
'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,— E. B. BROWNING — Aurora Leigh. Bk. VI.
You smell a rose through a fence: If two should smell it, what matter?— E. B. BROWNING — Lord Walter's Wife.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves. Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.— ROBERT BROWNING — One Way of Love.
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.— BRYANT — A Scene on the Banks of the
Hudson. I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phœbus peeps in view, For its like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou'!— BURNS — The Posie.
Yon rose-buds in the morning dew, How pure amang the leaves sae green! BURNS TO Chloris. When love came first to earth, the Spring Spread rose-beds to receive him. C.— CAMPBELL — Song. When Love Came
First To Earth. 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.— PHEBE CARY — Our Homestead.
Roses were sette of swete savour, With many roses that thei bere.— CHAUCER — The Romaunt of the Rose.
Till the rose's lips grow pale With her sighs.— ROSE TERRY COOKE — Rêve 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
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 C. R. DORR — The Clay to the
Rose. It never will rain roses: when we want To have more roses we must plant more trees.— GEORGE ELIOT — Spanish Gypsy. Bk. III.
The gathered rose and the stolen heart Can charm but for a day.— EMMA EMBURY — Ballad.
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.— R. W. GILDER — The White and Red
It is written on the rose In its glory's full array: Read what those buds disclose- "Passing away" L— MRS. 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.— HERBERT — Vertue. St. 2.
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old time is still a flying, And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.— HERRICK — To the Virgins to Make Much
of Time. 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.— 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.— HOOD — Miss Kilmansegg.
We are blushing Roses, Bending with our fulness, 'Midst our close-capp'd sister buds, Warming the green coolness.— LEIGH HUNT — Songs and Chorus of the
Flowers. Roses. And the guelder rose In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped, Her wealth about her feet.— JEAN INGELOW — Laurance. Pt. III.
The roses that in yonder hedge appear Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within; But since the hand may pluck them every day, Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away. JEAN INGELOw-The Four Bridges. St. 61. The vermeil rose had blown In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown Like spiked aloe.— KEATS — Endymion. Bk. I. L. 694.
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me, My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd: Soft voices had they, that with tender plea Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.— KEATS — To a Friend who Sent me Some
Roses. Woo on, with odour wooing me, Faint rose with fading core; For God's rose-thought, that blooms in thee, Will bloom forevermore.— GEORGE MACDONALD — Songs of the Summer Night. Pt. III.
And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies.— MARLOWE — The Passionate Shepherd to his Love. St. 3.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.— MILTON — Paradise Lost. Bk. IV. L. 256.
Rose of the desert! thou art to me An emblem of stainless purity, - Of those who, keeping their garments white, Walk on through life with steps aright.— D. M. MOIR — The White Rose.
While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue, But coyly linger'd on the thorn.— MONTGOMERY — The Adventures of a
Star. Two roses on one slender spray In sweet communion grew, Together hailed the morning ray And drank the evening dew.— MONTGOMERY — The Roses.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd- You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.— MOORE — Farewell! but Whenever you
Welcome the Hour. No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh.— MOORE — Last Rose of Summer.
Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.— MOORE — Rose of the Desert.
Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot- Worshipp'd while blooming-when she fades, forgot.— MOORE — Rose of the Desert.
Rose! thou art the sweetest flower, That ever drank the amber shower; Rose! thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.— MOORE — Odes of Anacreon. Ode XLIV.
Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose The golden sunset leaves its ray, So like a gem the flow'ret glows, We thither bend our headlong way; And though we find no treasure there, We bless the rose that shines so fair.— MOORE — The Crystal-Hunters.
Why do we shed the rose's bloom Upon the cold, insensate tomb? Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath, Afflict the slumbering chill of death?— MOORE — Odes of Anacreon.
Ode XXXII. There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long, In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.— MOORE — Lalla Rookh. The Veiled
Prophet of Khorassan. Oh! there is naught in nature bright Whose roses do not shed their light; When morning paints the Orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes.— MOORE — Odes of Anacreon. Ode LV.
The rose distils a healing balm The beating pulse of pain to calm.— MOORE — Odes of Anacreon. Ode LV.
'Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone.— MOORE — Last Rose of Summer.
What would the rose with all her pride be worth, Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?— MOORE — Love Alone.
O rose! the sweetest blossom, Of spring the fairest flower, O rose! the joy of heaven. The god of love, with roses His yellow locks adorning, Dances with the hours and graces.— S. J. G. PERCIVAL — Anacreontic. St. 2.
Die of a rose in aromatic pain.— POPE — Essay on Man. Ep. I. L. 200.
Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from every thorn.— POPE — Autumn. L. 36.
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.— POPE — Rape of the Lock. Canto IV. L. 158.
And when the parent-rose decays and dies, With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise.— PRIOR — Celia to Damon,
The rose Propt at the cottage door with careful hands, Bursts its green bud, and looks abroad for May.— THOS. BUCHANAN READ — The New Pastoral. Bk. VI. L. 150.
We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses, Dewy as the morning and coloured like the dawn; Little tents of odour, where the bee reposes, Swooning in sweetness of the bed he dreams upon.— THOS. BUCHANAN READ — The New Pastoral. Bk. VII. L. 51.
I watched a rose-bud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower: Then when I thought it should be strong It opened at the matin hour And fell at even-song.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Symbols.
C. The rose saith in the dewy morn, I am most fair; Yet all my loveliness is born Upon a thorn.— CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI — Consider the
0. Lilies of the Field. The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.— SCOTT — Lady of the Lake. Canto IV.
From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.— Shakespeare — Henry VI. Pt. I. Act II. Sc 4. L. 30.
Hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose. Midsummer-Night's Dream. Act II. Sc.1. L. 107. Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose, With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.— Shakespeare — Henry VI. Pt. II. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 254.
The red rose on triumphant brier. Midsummer-Night's Dream. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 96. There will we make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies.— Shakespeare — Merry Wives of Windsor. Act III. Sc. 1. L. 19. Song.
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air, The soul of her beauty and love lay bare.— SHELLEY — The Sensitive Plant. Pt. I.
I am the one rich thing that morn Leaves for the ardent noon to win; Grasp me not, I have a thorn, But bend and take my being in.— HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD — Flower
Songs. The Rose. It was nothing but a rose I gave her, - Nothing but a rose Any wind might rob of half its savor, Any wind that blows. * * * * * * Withered, faded, pressed between these pages, Crumpled, fold on fold,- Once it lay upon her breast, and ages Cannot make it old!— HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD — A Sigh.
The year of the rose is brief; From the first blade blown to the sheaf, From the thin green leaf to the gold, It has time to be sweet and grow old, To triumph and leave not a leaf.— SWINBURNE — The Year of the Rose.
And half in shade and half in sun; The Rose sat in her bower, With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart.— BAYARD TAYLOR — Poems of the Orient. The Poet in the East. St. 5.
And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose?— TENNYSON — The Day-Dream. Moral.
The fairest things have fleetest end : Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!— FRANCIS THOMPSON — Daisy. St. 10.
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. γ.— GIL VICENTE — I Come from the Rose-grove, Mother. Trans. by
John Bowring. 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. S.— EDMUND WALLER — The Rose.
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!— ISAAC WATTS — The Rose.
The rosebuds lay their crimson lips together.— AMELIA B. WELBY — Hopeless Love. St. 5.
The budding rose above the rose full blown.— WORDSWORTH — The Prelude. Bk. XI.
Rose, Musk-. Rosa Moschata. I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer.— KEATS — To a Friend who Sent some
Roses. And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.— KEATS — Ode to a Nightingale.
Rose, Sweetbrier. (Eglantine), Rosa Rubiginosa. Yet here's eglantine, Here's ivy!-take them as I used to do Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.— E. B. BROWNING — Trans. from the
Portuguese. XLIV. Sometimes I choose the lily, without stain; The royal rose sometimes the best I call; Then the low daisy, dancing with the rain, Doth seem to me the finest flower of all; And yet if only one could bloom for me- I know right well what flower that one would be!— ALICE CARY — The Field Sweetbrier.
The sweetbrier, under the window-sill, Which the early birds made glad, And the damask rose by the garden-fence, Were all the flowers we had.— PHEBE CARY — Our Homestead.
For sycamores with eglantine were spread, A hedge about the sides, a covering overhead.— DRYDEN — The Flower and the Leaf. L. 72.
The fresh eglantine exhaled a breath, Whose odours were of power to raise from death.— DRYDEN — The Flower and the Leaf. L. 96.
The sweetbrier rose-the wayside rose, Still spreads its fragrant arms, Where graciously to passing eyes It gave its simple charms.— CAROLINE GILMAN — Return to
Massachusetts.