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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=413335" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Roman Rose-Seller</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not from Paestum come my roses; Patrons, see<br>My flowers are Roman-blown; their nectaries<br>Drop honey amber, and their petals throw<br>Rich crimsons on the lucent marble of the shrine<br>Where snowy Dian lifts her pallid brow,<br>As crimson lips of Love may seek to warm<br>A sister glow in hearts as pulseless hewn.<br>Caesar from Afric wars returns to-day;<br>Patricians, buy my royal roses; strew<br>His way knee-deep, as though old Tiber roll'd<br>A tide of musky roses from his bed to do<br>A wonder, wond'rous homage. Marcus Lucius, thou<br>To-day dost wed; buy roses, roses, roses,<br>To mingle with the nuptial myrtle; look,<br>I strip the polish'd thorns from the stems,<br>The nuptial rose should be a stingless flower;<br>Lucania, pass not by my roses. Virginia,<br>Here is a rose that has a canker in't, and yet<br>It is most glorious-dyed and sweeter smells<br>Than those death hath not touched. To-day they bear<br>The shield of Claudius with his spear upon it,<br>Close upon Caesar's chariot--heap, heap it up<br>With roses such as these; 'tis true he's dead<br>And there's the canker! but, Romans, he<br>Died glorious, there's the perfume! and his virtues<br>Are these bright petals; so buy my roses, Widow.<br>No Greek-born roses mine. Priestess, priestess!<br>Thy ivory chariot stay; here's a rose and not<br>A white one, though thy chaste hands attend<br>On Vesta's flame. Love's of a colour--be it that<br>Which ladders Heaven and lives amongst the Gods;<br>Or like the Daffodil blows all about the earth;<br>Or, Hesperus like, is one sole star upon<br>The solemn sky which bridges same sad life,<br>So here's a crimson rose: Be, thou as pure<br>As Dian's tears iced on her silver cheek,<br>And know no quality of love, thou art<br>A sorrow to the Gods! Oh mighty Love!<br>I would my roses could but chorus Thee.<br>No roses of Persepolis are mine. Helot, here--<br>I give thee this last blossom: A bee as red<br>As Hybla's golden toilers sucked its sweets;<br>A butterfly, wing'd like to Eros nipp'd<br>Its new-pinked leaves; the sun, bright despot, stole<br>The dew night gives to all. Poor slave, methinks<br>A bough of cypress were as gay a gift, and yet<br>It hath some beauty left! a little scarlet--for<br>The Gods love all; a little perfume, for there is no life,<br>Poor slave, but hath its sweetness. Thus I make<br>My roses Oracles. O hark! the cymbals beat<br>In god-like silver bursts of sound; I go<br>To see great Caesar leading Glory home,<br>From Campus Martius to the Capitol!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Isabella+Valancy+Crawford">Isabella Valancy Crawford</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=413335" data-title="The Roman Rose-Seller de Isabella Valancy Crawford" data-description="Not from Paestum come my roses; Patrons, see
My flowers are Roman-blown; their nectaries
Drop honey amber, and their petals throw
Rich crimsons on the lucent marble of the shrine
Where snowy Dian lifts her pallid brow,
As crimson lips of Love may ..."></div>
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