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Best Famous Rose Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Rose poems. This is a select list of the best famous Rose poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Rose poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of rose poems.

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Robert Burns | |

A Red Red Rose

O, my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my Luve's like a melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair as thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will love thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: I will love thess till, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run: And fare thee well, my only luve! And fare thee weel, a while! And I will come again, my luve, Tho' it ware ten thousand mile.


by Christina Rossetti | |

A Daughter of Eve

A fool I was to sleep at noon,
  And wake when night is chilly
Beneath the comfortless cold moon;
A fool to pluck my rose too soon,
  A fool to snap my lily.
My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken.
Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:— Stripp'd bare of hope and everything, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow.


by Oliver Wendell Holmes | |

The Last Leaf

I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door,
And again
The pavement stones resound,
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.
They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the Crier on his round Through the town.
But now he walks the streets, And looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone.
" The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said— Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago— That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow; But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh.
I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.


More great poems below...

by Thomas Moore | |

Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
   Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms,
   Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
   Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
   Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose.


by Gerard Manley Hopkins | |

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things—
   For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;
      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
   Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him.


by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |

Give All to Love

GIVE all to love; 
Obey thy heart; 
Friends kindred days  
Estate good fame  
Plans credit and the Muse¡ª 5 
Nothing refuse.
'Tis a brave master; Let it have scope: Follow it utterly Hope beyond hope: 10 High and more high It dives into noon With wing unspent Untold intent; But it is a god 15 Knows its own path And the outlets of the sky.
It was never for the mean; It requireth courage stout Souls above doubt 20 Valour unbending: Such 'twill reward;¡ª They shall return More than they were And ever ascending.
25 Leave all for love; Yet hear me yet One word more thy heart behoved One pulse more of firm endeavour¡ª Keep thee to-day 30 To-morrow for ever Free as an Arab Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise 35 First vague shadow of surmise Flits across her bosom young Of a joy apart from thee Free be she fancy-free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem 40 Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself As a self of purer clay; Though her parting dims the day 45 Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know When half-gods go The gods arrive.


by Anna Akhmatova | |

Lots Wife

Holy Lot  was a-going behind  God's angel,
He seemed  huge and bright on a hill, huge and black.
But the heart of his wife whispered stronger and stranger: "It's not very late, you have time to look back At these rose turrets of your native Sodom, The square where you sang, and the yard where you span, The windows looking from your cozy home Where you bore children for your dear man.
" She looked -- and her eyes were instantly bound By pain -- they couldn't see any more at all: Her fleet feet grew into the stony ground, Her body turned into a pillar of salt.
Who'll mourn her as one of Lot's family members? Doesn't she seem the smallest of losses to us? But deep in my heart I will always remember One who gave her life up for one single glance.


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

You Are Tired

You are tired 
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me then And we'll leave it far and far away- (Only you and I understand!) You have played (I think) And broke the toys you were fondest of And are a little tired now; Tired of things that break and- Just tired.
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart- Open to me! For I will show you the places Nobody knows And if you like The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah come with me! I'll blow you that wonderful bubble the moon That floats forever and a day; I'll sing you the jacinth song Of the probable stars; I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream Until I find the Only Flower Which shall keep (I think) your little heart While the moon comes out of the sea.


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

i shall imagine life

i shall imagine life

is not worth dying if
(and when)roses complain
their beauties are in vain

but though mankind persuades
itself that every weed's
a rose roses(you feel
certain)will only smile


by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

Music when soft voices die

MUSIC when soft voices die  
Vibrates in the memory; 
Odours when sweet violets sicken  
Live within the sense they quicken; 

Rose leaves when the rose is dead 5 
Are heap'd for the belov¨¨d's bed: 
And so thy thoughts when thou art gone  
Love itself shall slumber on.


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

a clowns smirk in the skull of a baboon

a clown's smirk in the skull of a baboon
(where once good lips stalked or eyes firmly stir
red)
my mirror gives me on this afternoon;
i am a shape that can but eat and turd
ere with the dirt death shall him vastly gird 
a coward waiting clumsily to cease
whom every perfect thing meanwhile doth miss;
a hand's impression in an empty glove 
a soon forgotten tune a house for lease.
I have never loved you dear as now i love behold this fool who in the month of June having certain stars and planets heard rose very slowly in a tight balloon until the smallening world became absurd; him did an archer spy(whose aim had erred never)and by that little trick or this he shot the aeronaut down into the abyss -and wonderfully i fell through the green groove of twilight striking into many a piece.
I have never loved you dear as now i love god's terrible face brighter than a spoon collects the image of one fatal word; so that my life(which liked the sun and the moon) resembles something that has not occurred: i am a birdcage without any bird a collar looking for a dog a kiss without lips;a prayer lacking any knees but something beats within my shirt to prove he is undead who living noone is.
I have never loved you dear as now i love.
Hell(by most humble me which shall increase) open thy fire!for i have had some bliss of one small lady upon earth above; to whom i cry remembering her face i have never loved you dear as now i love


by John Keats | |

Ode on Melancholy

NO no! go not to Lethe neither twist 
Wolf's-bane tight-rooted for its poisonous wine; 
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kist 
By nightshade ruby grape of Proserpine; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries 5 
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries; 
For shade to shade will come too drowsily  
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
10 But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud That fosters the droop-headed flowers all And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose 15 Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave Or on the wealth of glob¨¨d peonies; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows Emprison her soft hand and let her rave And feed deep deep upon her peerless eyes.
20 She dwells with Beauty¡ªBeauty that must die; And Joy whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay in the very temple of Delight 25 Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
30


by John Keats | |

La Belle Dame sans Merci

'O WHAT can ail thee knight-at-arms  
Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge is wither'd from the lake  
And no birds sing.
'O what can ail thee knight-at-arms 5 So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full And the harvest 's done.
'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew; 10 And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.
' 'I met a lady in the meads Full beautiful¡ªa faery's child Her hair was long her foot was light 15 And her eyes were wild.
'I made a garland for her head And bracelets too and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love And made sweet moan.
20 'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long For sideways would she lean and sing A faery's song.
'She found me roots of relish sweet 25 And honey wild and manna dew And sure in language strange she said I love thee true! 'She took me to her elfin grot And there she wept and sigh'd fill sore; 30 And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.
'And there she lull¨¨d me asleep And there I dream'd¡ªAh! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd 35 On the cold hill's side.
'I saw pale kings and princes too Pale warriors death-pale were they all; They cried¡ª"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!" 40 'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gap¨¨d wide And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.
'And this is why I sojourn here 45 Alone and palely loitering Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake And no birds sing.
'


by Wallace Stevens | |

Anecdote of the Jar

I placed a jar in Tennessee, 
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it, And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion every where.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush, Like nothing else in Tennessee.


by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |

The Rhodora - On Being Asked Whence Is the Flower

IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, 
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, 
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, 
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 5 Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, 10 Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose 15 The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.


by Emily Dickinson | |

God made a little gentian

God made a little gentian;
It tried to be a rose
And failed, and all the summer laughed.
But just before the snows There came a purple creature That ravished all the hill; And summer hid her forehead, And mockery was still.
The frosts were her condition; The Tyrian would not come Until the North evoked it.
"Creator! shall I bloom?"


by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | |

The Warden of the Cinque Ports

A MIST was driving down the British Channel, 
The day was just begun, 
And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, 
Streamed the red autumn sun.
It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, 5 And the white sails of ships; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips.
Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover, Were all alert that day, 10 To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away.
Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon, through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, 15 The sea-coast opposite.
And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations, On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well.
20 And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports.
Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, 25 No drum-beat from the wall, No morning gun from the black fort's embrasure, Awaken with its call! No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, 30 Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal Be seen upon his post! For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, 35 The rampart wall had scaled.
He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room, And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom.
40 He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar; Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble And groan from shore to shore.
Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, 45 The sun rose bright o'erhead; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead.


by Phillis Wheatley | |

On the Death of a young Lady of Five Years of Age

From dark abodes to fair etherial light
Th' enraptur'd innocent has wing'd her flight;
On the kind bosom of eternal love
She finds unknown beatitude above.
This known, ye parents, nor her loss deplore, She feels the iron hand of pain no more; The dispensations of unerring grace, Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise; Let then no tears for her henceforward flow, No more distress'd in our dark vale below, Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright, Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night; But hear in heav'n's blest bow'rs your Nancy fair, And learn to imitate her language there.
"Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown'd, "By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound "Wilt thou be prais'd? Seraphic pow'rs are faint "Infinite love and majesty to paint.
"To thee let all their graceful voices raise, "And saints and angels join their songs of praise.
" Perfect in bliss she from her heav'nly home Looks down, and smiling beckons you to come; Why then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans? Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.
Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain, Why would you wish your daughter back again? No--bow resign'd.
Let hope your grief control, And check the rising tumult of the soul.
Calm in the prosperous, and adverse day, Adore the God who gives and takes away; Eye him in all, his holy name revere, Upright your actions, and your hearts sincere, Till having sail'd through life's tempestuous sea, And from its rocks, and boist'rous billows free, Yourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore, Shall join your happy babe to part no more.


by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | |

The Cumberland

AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, 
On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; 
And at times from the fortress across the bay 
The alarum of drums swept past, 
Or a bugle blast 5 
From the camp on the shore.
Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course 10 To try the force Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 15 And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside! 20 As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide.
"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries, 25 In his arrogant old plantation strain.
"Never!" our gallant Morris replies; "It is better to sink than to yield!" And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men.
30 Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath 35 For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air 40 Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead.
Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land! with hearts like these, 45 Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam!


by Allen Ginsberg | |

In The Back of the Real

railroad yard in San Jose 
I wandered desolate 
in front of a tank factory 
and sat on a bench 
near the switchman's shack.
A flower lay on the hay on the asphalt highway --the dread hay flower I thought--It had a brittle black stem and corolla of yellowish dirty spikes like Jesus' inchlong crown, and a soiled dry center cotton tuft like a used shaving brush that's been lying under the garage for a year.
Yellow, yellow flower, and flower of industry, tough spiky ugly flower, flower nonetheless, with the form of the great yellow Rose in your brain! This is the flower of the World.


by Elizabeth Bishop | |

The Armadillo

for Robert Lowell


This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height, rising toward a saint still honored in these parts, the paper chambers flush and fill with light that comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it's hard to tell them from the stars-- planets, that is--the tinted ones: Venus going down, or Mars, or the pale green one.
With a wind, they flare and falter, wobble and toss; but if it's still they steer between the kite sticks of the Southern Cross, receding, dwindling, solemnly and steadily forsaking us, or, in the downdraft from a peak, suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down.
We saw the pair of owls who nest there flying up and up, their whirling black-and-white stained bright pink underneath, until they shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls' nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone, a glistening armadillo left the scene, rose-flecked, head down, tail down, and then a baby rabbit jumped out, short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft!--a handful of intangible ash with fixed, ignited eyes.
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry! O falling fire and piercing cry and panic, and a weak mailed fist clenched ignorant against the sky!


by Percy Bysshe Shelley | |

Hellas

THE world's great age begins anew  
The golden years return  
The earth doth like a snake renew 
Her winter weeds outworn; 
Heaven smiles and faiths and empires gleam 5 
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
A brighter Hellas rears its mountains From waves serener far; A new Peneus rolls his fountains Against the morning star; 10 Where fairer Tempes bloom there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.
A loftier Argo cleaves the main Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again 15 And loves and weeps and dies; A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore.
O write no more the tale of Troy If earth Death's scroll must be¡ª 20 Nor mix with Laian rage the joy Which dawns upon the free Although a subtler Sphinx renew Riddles of death Thebes never knew.
Another Athens shall arise 25 And to remoter time Bequeath like sunset to the skies The splendour of its prime; And leave if naught so bright may live All earth can take or Heaven can give.
30 Saturn and Love their long repose Shall burst more bright and good Than all who fell than One who rose Than many unsubdued: Not gold not blood their altar dowers 35 But votive tears and symbol flowers.
O cease! must hate and death return? Cease! must men kill and die? Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn Of bitter prophecy! 40 The world is weary of the past¡ª O might it die or rest at last!


by William Cullen Bryant | |

The Death of the Flowers

THE MELANCHOLY days have come the saddest of the year  
Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sere; 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove the autumn leaves lie dead; 
They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's tread; 
The robin and the wren are flown and from the shrubs the jay 5 
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers the fair young flowers that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours.
10 The rain is falling where they lie but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The wind-flower and the violet they perished long ago And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the goldenrod and the aster in the wood 15 And the blue sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven as falls the plague on men And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland glade and glen.
And now when comes the calm mild day as still such days will come To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; 20 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard though all the trees are still And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died 25 The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forests cast the leaf And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours So gentle and so beautiful should perish with the flowers.
30


by Sappho | |

Please

Come back to me Gongyla here tonight 
You my rose with your Lydian lyre.
There hovers forever around you delight:
A beauty desired. 

Even your garment plunders my eyes.
I am enchanted: I who once
Complained to the Cyprus-born goddess 
Whom I now beseech 

Never to let this lose me grace
But rather bring you back to me:
Amongst all mortal women the one
I most wish to see. 

--Translated by Paul Roche 


by Sara Teasdale | |

Tides

 Love in my heart was a fresh tide flowing
 Where the starlike sea gulls soar;
The sun was keen and the foam was blowing
 High on the rocky shore.
But now in the dusk the tide is turning, Lower the sea gulls soar, And the waves that rose in resistless yearning Are broken forevermore.