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O Silver Rose

THE dark hour turns so slowly and so sweet,
The last still hour soft-fallen from the stars.
To-morrow I may kneel and touch thy feet,
O Rose of all Shiraz.

Lay wide thine amorous lattice to the south,
O Silver Rose, when roses breathe thy name,
And thou at dawn shalt feel upon thy mouth
The kiss I dared not claim.

Discrowned, dishonoured, reft of pride and power,
From the red battle where they hailed me lord,
O Silver Rose, O sweet Pomegranate Flower,
I turn me to their sword.

Life hath so held me to an empty part,
Life hath so snared me, bound and made me blind.
To-morrow I may rest upon thy heart,
For death shall prove more kind.

poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Fragoletta

O LOVE! what shall be said of thee?
The son of grief begot by joy?
Being sightless, wilt thou see?
Being sexless, wilt thou be
Maiden or boy?

I dreamed of strange lips yesterday
And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood
Was like a rose’s—yea,
A rose’s when it lay
Within the bud.

What fields have bred thee, or what groves
Concealed thee, O mysterious flower,
O double rose of Love’s,
With leaves that lure the doves
From bud to bower?

I dare not kiss it, lest my lip
Press harder than an indrawn breath,
And all the sweet life slip
Forth, and the sweet leaves drip,
Bloodlike, in death.

O sole desire of my delight!
O sole delight of my desire!
Mine eyelids and eyesight
Feed on thee day and night
Like lips of fire.

Lean back thy throat of carven pearl,
Let thy mouth murmur like the dove’s;
Say, Venus hath no girl,
No front of female curl,
Among her Loves.

Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair,
Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet,
Thy virginal strange air,
Are these not over fair
For Love to greet?

How should he greet thee? what new name,
Fit to move all men’s hearts, could move
Thee, deaf to love or shame,
Love’s sister, by the same
Mother as Love?

Ah sweet, the maiden’s mouth is cold,
Her breast-blossoms are simply red,
Her hair mere brown or gold,
Fold over simple fold
Binding her head.

Thy mouth is made of fire and wine,
Thy barren bosom takes my kiss
And turns my soul to thine
And turns thy lip to mine,
And mine it is.

Thou hast a serpent in thine hair,
In all the curls that close and cling;
And ah, thy breast-flower!
Ah love, thy mouth too fair
To kiss and sting!

Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes,
Satiate thy lips with loving me;
Nay, for thou shalt not rise;
Lie still as Love that dies
For love of thee.

Mine arms are close about thine head,
My lips are fervent on thy face,
And where my kiss hath fed
Thy flower-like blood leaps red
To the kissed place.

O bitterness of things too sweet!
O broken singing of the dove!
Love’s wings are over fleet,
And like the panther’s feet
The feet of Love.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Nocturn

I walk, I only,
Not I only wake;
Nothing is, this sweet night,
But doth couch and wake
For its love's sake;
Everything, this sweet night,
Couches with its mate.
For whom but for the stealthy-visitant sun
Is the naked moon
Tremulous and elate?
The heaven hath the earth
Its own and all apart;
The hush-ed pool holdeth
A star to its heart.
You may think the rose sleepeth,
But though she folded is,
The wind doubts her sleeping;
Not all the rose sleeps,
But smiles in her sweet heart
For crafty bliss.
The wind lieth with the rose,
And when he stirs, she stirs in her repose:
The wind hath the rose,
And the rose her kiss.
Ah, mouth of me!
Is it then that this
Seemeth much to thee?--
I wander only.
The rose hath her kiss.

poem by Francis Thompson
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Kisses

Sweet, can I sing you the song of your kisses?
How soft is this one, how subtle this is,
How fluttering swift as a bird's kiss that is,
As a bird that taps at a leafy lattice;
How this one clings and how that uncloses
From bud to flower in the way of roses;
And this through laughter and that through weeping
Swims to the brim where Love lies sleeping;
And this in a pout I snatch, and capture
That in the ecstasy of rapture,
When the odorous red-rose petals part
That my lips may find their way to the heart
Of the rose of the world, your lips, my rose.
But no song knows
The way of my heart to the heart of my rose.

poem by Arthur Symons
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Beauty's Metempsychosis

That beauty such as thine
Can die indeed,
Were ordinance too wantonly malign:
No wit may reconcile so cold a creed
With beauty such as thine.

From wave and star and flower
Some effluence rare
Was lent thee, a divine but transient dower:
Thou yield'st it back from eyes and lips and hair
To wave and star and flower.

Shouldst thou to-morrow die,
Thou still shalt be
Found in the rose and met in all the sky:
And from the ocean's heart shalt sing to me,
Shouldst thou to-morrow die.

poem by William Watson
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White dawn, that tak'st the heaven with sweet surprise

White dawn, that tak'st the heaven with sweet surprise
of amorous artifice,
art thou the bearer of my perfect hour
divine, untrod,
from some forgotten window of Paradise
by mighty winds of God
blown down the world, before my haunted eyes
at length to flower?
Nay, virgin dawn, yet art thou all too known,
too crowded light
to take my boundless hour of flaming peace:
thou common dayspring cease;
and be there only night, the only night,
more than all other lone:
be the sole secret world
one rose unfurl'd,
and nought disturb its blossom'd peace intense,
that fills the living deep beyond all dreams of sense
enmesh'd in errorous multiplicity:
— let be
nought but her coming there:
what else were fair?
It asks no golden web, no censer-fire
to tell the dense incarnate mystery
where one delight is wed with one desire.
No leaves bestrow
that passage to the rose of all fulfill'd delight;
no silver trumpets blow
majestic rite,
but silence that is sigh'd from faery lands,
or wraps the feet of Beauty where she treads
dim fields of fading stars,
be round our meeting heads,
and seeking hands:
draw near, ye heavens, and be our chamber-bars;
and thou, maternal heart of holy night,
close watch, what hush'd and sacramental tide
a soul goes forth wide-eyed,
to meet the archangel-sword of loneliest delight

poem by Christopher John Brennan
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In The Gardens Of Shushan

BE pitiful ! Her lips have touched this cool
Clear stream that sets the long green leaves astir.
The very doves that dream beside the pool
Sang their soft notes to her.

For her these doors that claim the amorous south,
Bound in red bronze and stayed with cedar-wood.
And here the bees sought honey from her mouth,
So like a flower she stood.

For her the globed pomegranates grew, and all
Sweet savoury fruits rose perfect from their flower.
Here has her soul known silence and the fall
Of each enchanted hour.

Under her feet all beauty was laid low,
In her deep eyes all beauty was made clear.
When the king called her through the evening glow,
'O Vashti, I am here !'

Still the sweet wells return to me her face,
Still her lost name on every wind is blown.
The shadows and the silence of this place
Are hers alone.

poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Ten Roses

For every tear you cry,
I cry a hundred thousand more,

I'll give you ten roses,
For everything you're fighting for.

The first will be a red rose,
For courage and for health,

The second a bright yellow rose,
For gaining all life's wealth,

The third will be a soft pink rose,
So you may be happy in love,

The fourth will be a white rose,
Brought by a turtledove,

The fifth will be an orange rose,
To give you back your fire,

The sixth will be a deep pink rose,
So you may have what you desire,

The seventh will be a coral rose,
To gain you many friends,

The eighth will be a purple rose,
To guide you through life's bends,

The ninth will be a pale yellow rose,
To give you hope to try,

The tenth will be a black rose,
So you can mourn me when I die.

I have to leave my dearest friend,
But may the roses last you til my end,

I'm sorry I could not say goodbye,
Though ten roses I leave by your side.

I leave you with a kiss,
Along with these rose flowers,

I know I will be missed,
But I pray the roses will give you power,

Power to go on my love,
Power to be strong,

Power to get over me,
And let your life carry on

poem by Ruth warren
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The Rose Within: (Improvisation 03 12 2005)

Rose of resentment within
my hour of flower
in the Lord’s rest to make good
energy of love my winter’s sleep
the petal buds to rose within
my soul with which to keep
like candle lights my face
behind the eyes
not the solitary me
but my rose and I encountered there
indulge them both to speak
the rose resents the hour of flower
the energy of love in that winter’s sleep
I see hidden by the rose lines your face
behind your eye reddened in self respect
nearby the thicket beauty opens out
its energy there before me in greenhouses
knows no hatred source
stands with me to bid farewell
at temple doors I let my spirit sprout
we hunger not for walls but for the rose
within the rose of resentment
my hour of flower.

poem by Lee B. Mack
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Prose to a Rose

Such A flower is the rose
Its colour bursting red
Such a flower if the rose
The flower of passion the poets often said
I could gaze upon its beauty
And not lift thine eyes
And when it closes its petals to go to sleep
A tear of sadness rises in my eyes
Such a flower is the rose
For it reminds me of you my dear
When ever I gaze upon a rose
It makes me wish you were here
Its petals are soft as thy skin
The colour like your lips
Its fragrance is sweet and pure
Like the flavor of your kiss
Such a flower is the rose it beauty
Has been endless through out time
And when ever I see a rose be reassured my love
You are for ever on my mind

poem by John A. Hancock
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A Song Of Roses

'Tis time to sing of roses: of roses all ablow,
To every vagrant passing breeze they dip a courtesy low,
'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here, you know.

One song for true love's roses of sweetest deepest red,
Some heart will wear you faithfully when life itself hath fled,
And for the white rose sing a song--the white rose for the dead.

And ah! the yellow roses, of brightest, lightest gold,
King Midas must have touched their leaves in mystic days of old,
Or they were made of sunshine, and gilded, fold by fold.

And the roadside rose, sweet-briar, we would remember thee
And the cinnamon rose that evermore enthralls each passing bee,
You old, old-fashioned roses, a-growing wild and free.

'Tis time to sing of roses! of roses all ablow!
They come again, as sweet, my dear, as those of long ago.
'Tis time to sing of roses! for June is here you know.

poem by Virna Sheard
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Sweet Perfume

A rose arose with rosy hue,
And made my torn heart, so sparkling new,
A rose arose as roses do,
And warmth for its guise within me grew.

A rose arose with beauty bright,
And gladdened my heart with such delight,
A rose arose as roses might,
And set out great charm before my sight.

A rose arose with summertime,
And imbued my heart with songs sublime,
A rose arose as roses climb,
And showed itself in all its prime.

A rose arose inside the room,
And lifted my heart so full of gloom,
A rose arose as roses bloom,
And fused the air with its sweet perfume.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Sweet Reprieve Rose

Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
That was thrown on the battle field for my soul
The inevitable mortal wound waits for me on yonder hill
As the dawn breaks on the time transcribed for me
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose

Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
When he was first enclosed
For three dark days and three lonely nights
Until he returned unto the light
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose

Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose
When we are first enclosed
Waiting for his trumpet to blow
And for all of his people to be called home
Oh the smell of the sweet reprieve rose

poem by Brian Kilpatrick
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Come Back my Rose

I am reading the death of a
rose,
One say your rose has gone,
Two denied it's back with
no-one,
Three come to claim with its blame,
No-one has seen what i see,
When I miss One tells me I am
in a mess,
I tried to go but Two assure it
don't flee,
I began to think if it was a
loss,
A loss to miss who never tries
to feel,
Three came to say who dare to
claim without a feel,
A rose is a rose everyday and
every night,
The rose is a rose and was
always a rose,
So, , theory now goes to spread
the light,
The dear only knows what
will next prove a rose,
I want to say but no-one to
blame,
The death had gone and the
Red has become,
So, , come back my rose from
wherever you have gone, ,
..

poem by John Nabeeh Nmr
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Rose, Rose(by Henrry Zhou)

Rose, Rose
Love you, without words.
When I touch your waist,
Close to your lips.

Rose, Rose
Kisses are what you send to me.
Endless mythical dream
Every kiss seems to be

Rose, rose
Aren’t you the waves of the red wine
Of the first night in a wedding?
In your soft heart
slipped the lovers’ laughs and tears.

Love you, Rose
Light vortex, pink whorls
full of a garden I wish to plant Roses
Even waking to be a sad nightmare
Still I will hold you.
O, Rose, my dear Rose

poem by Henrry Zhou
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The Wildwood Rose

O silver sky what wind does blow?
Across the moor to the wildwood rose
What snow does fall, the mountain’s wrath
Against the bright rose malice hath

O gentle rose, be not afeared
Thy humble strength to persevere
Where brutish strength and cunning fail
The meek and mild rose will prevail.

O wildwood rose, the river spray,
Does it wash thy tears away?
No boastful weed nor greedy vine
Would the wildwood rose entwine.

O wildwood rose, come hither soon,
I ask of you this simple boon.
Most favored of virtues, the last and the best,
Come to my heart, and there take your rest.

poem by Ryalis Elior
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(Love Poem) Bitter Sweet Rose

Bitter sweet rose will you be mine?
Or am I wasting my time?
Bitter sweet rose you smell divine.
Do you have a succulent kiss?
Is it something I've already missed?

Bitter sweet rose what gives?
Is it how we must live?
Bitter sweet rose will you answer my questions?
Are you devote?
Do you stray when your bored?
Will you doubt?
Is what you want something more?

Bitter sweet rose are you keeping score?
Will you try something new?
Will you lock your door?
Do your lips taste like dew?
Bitter sweet rose do you want to go?
Do you love the snow?
Is this right?
Is this what you want tonight?
Bitter sweet rose, oh my bitter rose.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Thou Art a Flower

Thou art a flower, dear heart, a fragrant flower
And I, the wandering, hair-clad, amorous bee.
’Mongst all the regal beauties of the bower,
I seek but thee.

I feel the ivory of thy petals fair
Brush lightly on my belly as I woo
And I would sting thee, if I did but dare,
So sweet are you.

I suck the honey from your dewy bowl
And drunken mad, with wild, delirious bliss,
Within your cup, I yield to you my soul
And drink your kiss.

Oh! petals sweet, close in and crush me dead.
I am consumed in flames of passion’s fire.
What else is left, when this dear hour hath fled.
But dead desire?

The juice of poppy flowers and breath of rose,
Wistaria’s purple, blood-flecked lilies white,
I pilfer and when, soft, your petals close,
When comes the night.

I pour the passions of the world of flowers
Deep in beyond the lips of quivering red.
Your life is mine to craze the trembling hours,
All else is dead.

poem by from The Point of View
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Past Tense

long, long time ago
in the past tense of my life
there was once a rosey rose
with a beauty sharper than a knife
spoiled by every dropp of rain
on her petals so reddish as blood
playful in such childish vain
though never she had to leave her bud