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Best Famous Red Roses Poems

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

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Written by Oscar Wilde | Create an image from this poem

Nay Lord not thus! white lilies in the spring

 Seven stars in the still water,
And seven in the sky;
Seven sins on the King's daughter,
Deep in her soul to lie.
Red roses are at her feet, (Roses are red in her red-gold hair) And O where her bosom and girdle meet Red roses are hidden there.
Fair is the knight who lieth slain Amid the rush and reed, See the lean fishes that are fain Upon dead men to feed.
Sweet is the page that lieth there, (Cloth of gold is goodly prey,) See the black ravens in the air, Black, O black as the night are they.
What do they there so stark and dead? (There is blood upon her hand) Why are the lilies flecked with red? (There is blood on the river sand.
) There are two that ride from the south and east, And two from the north and west, For the black raven a goodly feast, For the King's daughter rest.
There is one man who loves her true, (Red, O red, is the stain of gore!) He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew, (One grave will do for four.
) No moon in the still heaven, In the black water none, The sins on her soul are seven, The sin upon his is one.


Written by Sarojini Naidu | Create an image from this poem

Indian Dancers

 EYES ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire 
Drink deep of the hush of the hyacinth heavens that glimmer around them in fountains of light; 
O wild and entrancing the strain of keen music that cleaveth the stars like a wail of desire, 
And beautiful dancers with houri-like faces bewitch the voluptuous watches of night.
The scents of red roses and sandalwood flutter and die in the maze of their gem-tangled hair, And smiles are entwining like magical serpents the poppies of lips that are opiate-sweet; Their glittering garments of purple are burning like tremulous dawns in the quivering air, And exquisite, subtle and slow are the tinkle and tread of their rhythmical, slumber-soft feet.
Now silent, now singing and swaying and swinging, like blossoms that bend to the breezes or showers, Now wantonly winding, they flash, now they falter, and, lingering, languish in radiant choir; Their jewel-girt arms and warm, wavering, lily-long fingers enchant through melodious hours, Eyes ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire!
Written by Amy Lowell | Create an image from this poem

Crowned

 You came to me bearing bright roses,
Red like the wine of your heart;
You twisted them into a garland
To set me aside from the mart.
Red roses to crown me your lover, And I walked aureoled and apart.
Enslaved and encircled, I bore it, Proud token of my gift to you.
The petals waned paler, and shriveled, And dropped; and the thorns started through.
Bitter thorns to proclaim me your lover, A diadem woven with rue.
Written by Sarojini Naidu | Create an image from this poem

Indian Dancer

 EYES ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire 
Drink deep of the hush of the hyacinth heavens that glimmer around them in fountains of light; 
O wild and entrancing the strain of keen music that cleaveth the stars like a wail of desire, 
And beautiful dancers with houri-like faces bewitch the voluptuous watches of night.
The scents of red roses and sandalwood flutter and die in the maze of their gem-tangled hair, And smiles are entwining like magical serpents the poppies of lips that are opiate-sweet; Their glittering garments of purple are burning like tremulous dawns in the quivering air, And exquisite, subtle and slow are the tinkle and tread of their rhythmical, slumber-soft feet.
Now silent, now singing and swaying and swinging, like blossoms that bend to the breezes or showers, Now wantonly winding, they flash, now they falter, and, lingering, languish in radiant choir; Their jewel-girt arms and warm, wavering, lily-long fingers enchant through melodious hours, Eyes ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire!
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

Domicilium

 It faces west, and round the back and sides 
High beeches, bending, hang a veil of boughs, 
And sweep against the roof.
Wild honeysucks Climb on the walls, and seem to sprout a wish (If we may fancy wish of trees and plants) To overtop the apple trees hard-by.
Red roses, lilacs, variegated box Are there in plenty, and such hardy flowers As flourish best untrained.
Adjoining these Are herbs and esculents; and farther still A field; then cottages with trees, and last The distant hills and sky.
Behind, the scene is wilder.
Heath and furze Are everything that seems to grow and thrive Upon the uneven ground.
A stunted thorn Stands here and there, indeed; and from a pit An oak uprises, Springing from a seed Dropped by some bird a hundred years ago.
In days bygone-- Long gone--my father's mother, who is now Blest with the blest, would take me out to walk.
At such a time I once inquired of her How looked the spot when first she settled here.
The answer I remember.
'Fifty years Have passed since then, my child, and change has marked The face of all things.
Yonder garden-plots And orchards were uncultivated slopes O'ergrown with bramble bushes, furze and thorn: That road a narrow path shut in by ferns, Which, almost trees, obscured the passers-by.
Our house stood quite alone, and those tall firs And beeches were not planted.
Snakes and efts Swarmed in the summer days, and nightly bats Would fly about our bedrooms.
Heathcroppers Lived on the hills, and were our only friends; So wild it was when we first settled here.
'


Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem

Red Roses

 Tommy is three and when he's bad
his mother dances with him.
She puts on the record, "Red Roses for a Blue Lady" and throws him across the room.
Mind you, she never laid a hand on him.
He gets red roses in different places, the head, that time he was as sleepy as a river, the back, that time he was a broken scarecrow, the arm like a diamond had bitten it, the leg, twisted like a licorice stick, all the dance they did together, Blue Lady and Tommy.
You fell, she said, just remember you fell.
I fell, is all he told the doctors in the big hospital.
A nice lady came and asked him questions but because he didn't want to be sent away he said, I fell.
He never said anything else although he could talk fine.
He never told about the music or how she'd sing and shout holding him up and throwing him.
He pretends he is her ball.
He tries to fold up and bounce but he squashes like fruit.
For he loves Blue Lady and the spots of red roses he gives her
Written by William Henry Davies | Create an image from this poem

The Dark Hour

 And now, when merry winds do blow, 
And rain makes trees look fresh, 
An overpowering staleness holds 
This mortal flesh.
Though well I love to feel the rain, And be by winds well blown -- The mystery of mortal life Doth press me down.
And, In this mood, come now what will, Shine Rainbow, Cuckoo call; There is no thing in Heaven or Earth Can lift my soul.
I know not where this state comes from -- No cause for grief I know; The Earth around is fresh and green, Flowers near me grow.
I sit between two fair rose trees; Red roses on my right, And on my left side roses are A lovely white.
The little birds are full of joy, Lambs bleating all the day; The colt runs after the old mare, And children play.
And still there comes this dark, dark hour -- Which is not borne of Care; Into my heart it creeps before I am aware.
Written by Carl Sandburg | Create an image from this poem

A Million Young Workmen 1915

 A MILLION young workmen straight and strong lay stiff on the grass and roads,
And the million are now under soil and their rottening flesh will in the years feed roots of blood-red roses.
Yes, this million of young workmen slaughtered one another and never saw their red hands.
And oh, it would have been a great job of killing and a new and beautiful thing under the sun if the million knew why they hacked and tore each other to death.
The kings are grinning, the kaiser and the czar—they are alive riding in leather-seated motor cars, and they have their women and roses for ease, and they eat fresh-poached eggs for breakfast, new butter on toast, sitting in tall water-tight houses reading the news of war.
I dreamed a million ghosts of the young workmen rose in their shirts all soaked in crimson … and yelled: God damn the grinning kings, God damn the kaiser and the czar.
Chicago, 1915.
Written by Francis Thompson | Create an image from this poem

At Lords

 It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast, And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost, And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host As the run-stealers flicker to and fro, To and fro: - O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!
Written by Walt Whitman | Create an image from this poem

By Broad Potomac's Shore

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BY broad Potomac’s shore—again, old tongue! 
(Still uttering—still ejaculating—canst never cease this babble?) 
Again, old heart so gay—again to you, your sense, the full flush spring returning; 
Again the freshness and the odors—again Virginia’s summer sky, pellucid blue and
 silver, 
Again the forenoon purple of the hills,
Again the deathless grass, so noiseless, soft and green, 
Again the blood-red roses blooming.
2 Perfume this book of mine, O blood-red roses! Lave subtly with your waters every line, Potomac! Give me of you, O spring, before I close, to put between its pages! O forenoon purple of the hills, before I close, of you! O smiling earth—O summer sun, give me of you! O deathless grass, of you!
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