The Rose: Its History, Poetry, Culture, and Classification

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Wiley & Putnam, 1847 - Flowers in literature - 280 pages

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Page 104 - O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem By that sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses; But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade, Die to themselves.
Page 95 - Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh. I'll not leave thee, thou lone one ! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may...
Page 122 - Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe.
Page 112 - WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave, Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave...
Page 8 - I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the valleys. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among the daughters.
Page 105 - But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which, withering on the virgin thorn, Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Page 72 - ... angels look Behind the blissful screen ; As when, triumphant o'er His woes, The Son of God by moonlight rose, By all but Heaven unseen. As when the holy maid beheld Her risen Son and Lord : Thought has not colours half so fair, That she to paint that hour may dare — In silence best ador'd.
Page 71 - ... shrink from sight Here in the coarse rude earth : How then should rash intruding glance Break in upon her sacred trance Who boasts a heavenly birth ? So still and secret is her growth, Ever the truest heart, Where deepest strikes her kindly root For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, Least knows its happy part.
Page 104 - It is the very emblem of a maid : For when the west wind courts her gently, How modestly she blows, and paints the sun With her chaste blushes ! when the north comes near her, i╗ Rude and impatient, then, like chastity, She locks her beauties in her bud again, And leaves him to base briers.
Page 70 - Nor soil'd by ruder breath ? . Who ever saw the earliest rose First open her sweet breast ? Or, when the summer sun goes down, The first soft star in evening's crown Light up her gleaming crest ? Fondly we seek the dawning bloom On features wan and fair, — The gazing eye no change can trace, But look away a little space, Then turn, and, lo ! 'tis there.

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