Roses

      For other uses, see Rose (disambiguation).
      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. ~ Thomas Moore
      Go right to the rose. Go right to the White Rose (For me.) ~ Kate Bush

      Roses are perennial plants of the genus Rosa, within the family Rosaceae. There are over 100 species. They form a group of erect shrubs, and climbing or trailing plants, with stems that are often armed with sharp prickles. Flowers are large and showy, in a number of colours from white through yellows and reds. Most species are native to Asia, with smaller numbers native to Europe, North America, and northwest Africa. Species, cultivars and hybrids are all widely grown for their beauty and fragrance. Rose plants range in size from compact, miniature roses, to climbers that can reach 7 meters in height. Species from different parts of the world easily hybridize, which has given rise to the many types of garden roses.

      Sourced

      • This guelder rose, at far too slight a beck
        Of the wind, will toss about her flower-apples.
      • '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.
      • Oh, my Luve is like a red, red rose,
        That's newly sprung in June.
        O, my Luve is like the melodie,
        That's sweetly played in tune.
      • Give me one wish, and I'd be wassailing
        In the orchard, my English rose,
        Or with my shepherd, who'll bring me home.
      • This little girl inside me
        Is retreating to her favourite place.
        Go into the garden.
        Go under the ivy,
        Under the leaves,
        Away from the party.
        Go right to the rose.
        Go right to the White Rose
        (For me.)
      • It never will rain roses: when we want
        To have more roses we must plant more trees.
      • You can't really measure the effect of this kind of resistance in whether or not X number of bridges were blown up or a regime fell... The White Rose really has a more symbolic value, but that's a very important value.
      • The red rose whispers of passion,
        And the white rose breathes of love;
        O, the red rose is a falcon,
        And the white rose is a dove.
      • Every rose has its thorn
        Just like every night has its dawn
        Just like every cowboy sings his sad, sad song.
        Every rose has its thorn.
        • Poison, "Every Rose Has Its Thorn", Open Up And Say... Ahh (1988).
      • Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
      • Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die.

      Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922)

      Quotes reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 678-682.
      The red rose on triumphant brier. ~ William Shakespeare
      • She wore a wreath of roses,
        The night that first we met.
      • The rose that all are praising
        Is not the rose for me.
      • Go pretty rose, go to my fair,
        Go tell her all I fain would dare,
        Tell her of hope; tell her of spring,
        Tell her of all I fain would sing,
        Oh! were I like thee, so fair a thing.
        • Mike Beverly, Go Pretty Rose.
      • 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.
        • F. N. Bodenstedt, The Rose and Thistle. Translation from the German by Frederick Ricord.
      • The full-blown rose, mid dewy sweets
        Most perfect dies.
        • Maria Brooks, Written on Seeing Pharamond.
      • 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.
      • And thus, what can we do,
        Poor rose and poet too,
        Who both antedate our mission
        In an unprepared season?
      • "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?"
      • All June I bound the rose in sheaves,
        Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.
      • 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.
      • I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phœbus peeps in view,
        For its like a baumy kiss o'er her sweet bonnie mou'!.
      • Yon rose-buds in the morning dew,
        How pure amang the leaves sae green!
      • When love came first to earth, the Spring
        Spread rose-beds to receive him.
      • Roses were sette of swete savour,
        With many roses that thei bere.
      • Je ne suis pas la rose, mais j'ai vécu pres d'elle.
        • I am not the rose, but I have lived near the rose.
        • Attributed to H. B. Constant by A. Hayward in Introduction to Letters of Mrs. Piozzi. Saadi, the Persian poet, represents a lump of clay with perfume still clinging to it from the petals fallen from the rose-trees. In his Gulistan. (Rose Garden.).
      • 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?
      • Oh, raise your deep-fringed lids that close
        To wrap you in some sweet dream's thrall;
        I am the spectre of the rose
        You wore but last night at the ball.
        • Gautier, Spectre of the Rose (from the French). See Werner's Readings No. 8.
      • 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.
      • Pflücke Rosen, weil sie blühn,
        Morgen ist nicht heut!
        Keine Stunde lass entfliehn.
        Morgen ist nicht heut.
        • Gather roses while they bloom,
          To-morrow is yet far away.
          Moments lost have no room
          In to-morrow or to-day.
        • Gleim, Benutzung der Zeit.
      • It is written on the rose
        In its glory's full array:
        Read what those buds disclose—
        "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.
      • Roses at first were white,
        'Till they co'd not agree,
        Whether my Sappho's breast
        Or they more white sho'd be.
      • He came and took me by the hand,
        Up to a red rose tree,
        He kept His meaning to Himself,
        But gave a rose to me.

        I did not pray Him to lay bare
        The mystery to me,
        Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,
        And His own face to see.
      • 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.
      • Poor Peggy hawks nosegays from street to street
        Till—think of that who find life so sweet!—
        She hates the smell of roses.
      • And the guelder rose
        In a great stillness dropped, and ever dropped,
        Her wealth about her feet.
      • 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.
      • The vermeil rose had blown
        In frightful scarlet, and its thorns outgrown
        Like spiked aloe.
      • But the rose leaves herself upon the brier,
        For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
      • Woo on, with odour wooing me,
        Faint rose with fading core;
        For God's rose-thought, that blooms in thee,
        Will bloom forevermore.
      • Mais elle était du mond, où les plus belles choses
        Ont le pire destin;
        Et Rose, elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses,
        L'espace d'un matin.
        • But she bloomed on earth, where the most beautiful things have the saddest destiny;
          And Rose, she lived as live the roses, for the space of a morning.
        • François de Malherbe. In a letter of condolence to M. Du Perrier on the loss of his daughter.
      • And I will make thee beds of roses,
        And a thousand fragrant posies.
        • Christopher Marlowe, The Passionate Shepherd to his Love, Stanza 3. Said to be written by Shakespeare and Marlowe.
      • 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.
      • While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue,
        But coyly linger'd on the thorn.
      • Two roses on one slender spray
        In sweet communion grew,
        Together hailed the morning ray
        And drank the evening dew.
      • 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.
      • 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.
      • 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.
        • Thomas Moore, Lalla Rookh (1817), The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan.
      • No flower of her kindred,
        No rosebud is nigh,
        To reflect back her blushes,
        Or give sigh for sigh.
      • 'Tis the last rose of summer,
        Left blooming alone.
      • What would the rose with all her pride be worth,
        Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?
      • Why do we shed the rose's bloom
        Upon the cold, insensate tomb?
        Can flowery breeze or odor's breath,
        Affect the slumbering chill of death?
      • 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.
      • 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.
      • The rose distils a healing balm
        The beating pulse of pain to calm.
      • Rose of the Desert! thus should woman be
        Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.
      • Rose of the Garden! such is woman's lot—
        Worshipp'd while blooming—when she fades, forgot.
      • Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
        Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
      • 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.
        • J. G. Percival—Anacreontic, Stanza 2.
      • The sweetest flower that blows,
        I give you as we part
        For you it is a rose
        For me it is my heart.
        • Frederic Peterson—At Parting.
      • There was never a daughter of Eve but once, ere the tale of her years be done,
        Shall know the scent of the Eden Rose, but once beneath the sun;
        Though the years may bring her joy or pain, fame, sorrow or sacrifice,
        The hour that brought her the scent of the Rose, she lived it in Paradise.
        • Susan K. Phillips, The Eden Rose. Quoted by Kipling in Mrs. Hauksbee Sits it Out. Published anonymously in St. Louis Globe Democrat, July 13, 1878.
      • There is no gathering the rose without being pricked by the thorns.
        • Pilpay, The Two Travellers, Chapter II. Fable VI.
      • Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn,
        And liquid amber drop from every thorn.
      • And when the parent-rose decays and dies,
        With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise.
      • 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.
      • Die Rose blüht nicht ohne Dornen. Ja: wenn nur aber nicht die Dornen die Rose überlebten.
        • The rose does not bloom without thorns.
          True: but would that the thorns did not outlive the rose.
        • Jean Paul Richter, Titan, Zykel 105.
      • The rose saith in the dewy morn,
        I am most fair;
        Yet all my loveliness is born
        Upon a thorn.
      • 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.
      • 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.
      • Hoary-headed frosts
        Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
      • The red rose on triumphant brier.
        • Midsummer Night's Dream, Act III, scene 1, line 96.
      • 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.
      • Should this fair rose offend thy sight,
        Placed in thy bosom bare,
        'Twill blush to find itself less white,
        And turn Lancastrian there.
        • James Somerville, The White Rose. Other versions of traditional origin.
      • 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.
      • 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, Stanza 5.
      • And is there any moral shut
        Within the bosom of the rose?
      • The fairest things have fleetest end:
        Their scent survives their close,
        But the rose's scent is bitterness
        To him that loved the rose!
      • 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.
        • Gil Vicente, I Come from the Rose-grove, Mother. Translation 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.
      • 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!
      • The rosebuds lay their crimson lips together.
        • Amelia B. Welby, Hopeless Love, Stanza 5.
      • Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they be withered.
        • Wisdom of Solomon, II. 8.
      • Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
        Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
        Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre
        Or in the wine vat, dwell beyond the stir
        And tumult of defeated dreams.

      Musk rose (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. ~ John Keats
      • I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
        A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
        Its sweets upon the summer.
      • And mid-May's eldest child,
        The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
        The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eyes.

      Sweetbrier rose (Eglantine; Rosa Rubiginosa)

      Wild-rose, Sweetbriar, Eglantine,
      All these pretty names are mine,
      And scent in every leaf is mine,
      And a leaf for all is mine,
      And the scent—Oh, that's divine!
      Happy-sweet and pungent fine,
      Pure as dew, and pick'd as wine. ~ Leigh Hunt
      • The fresh eglantine exhaled a breath,
        Those odours were of power to raise from death.
      • Wild-rose, Sweetbriar, Eglantine,
        All these pretty names are mine,
        And scent in every leaf is mine,
        And a leaf for all is mine,
        And the scent—Oh, that's divine!
        Happy-sweet and pungent fine,
        Pure as dew, and pick'd as wine.
        • Leigh Hunt, Songs and Chorus of the Flowers, Sweetbriar.
      • Rain-scented eglantine
        Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun.
      • Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine.
      • As through the verdant maze
        Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk;
        Or taste the smell of dairy.
      • The garden rose may richly bloom
        In cultured soil and genial air,
        To cloud the light of Fashion's room
        Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair,
        In lonelier grace, to sun and dew
        The sweetbrier on the hillside shows
        Its single leaf and fainter hue,
        Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose!

      Wild rose (Rosa Lucida)

      • A brier rose, whose buds
        Yield fragrant harvest for the honey bee.
        • L. E. Landon, The Oak, line 17.
      • A waft from the roadside bank
        Tells where the wild rose nods.
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      Last modified on 29 January 2013, at 19:34