Poems About Roses

World, is there one good thing in you, Life, love, or death--or what?Since lips that sang, I love thee, Have said, I love thee not?

I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall Into one flower's gold cup;I think the bird will miss me, And give the summer up.O sweet place, desolate in tall Wild grass, have you forgotHow her lips loved to kiss me, Now that they kiss me not?

Be false or fair above me; Come back with any face,Summer!--do I care what you do? You cannot change one place,--The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, The grave I make the spot,--Here, where she used to love me, Here, where she loves me not.

The house is mouldering stone by stone,The garden-walks are overgrown;The flowers are low, the weeds are high,The fountain-stream is choked and dry,The dial-stone with moss is green,Where'er the Rose of May is seen.

The Rose of May its pride displayedAlong the old stone balustrade;And ancient ladies, quaintly dight,In its pink blossoms took delight;And on the steps would make a standTo scent its fragrance--fan in hand.

Long have been dead those ladies gay;Their very heirs have passed away;And their old portraits, prim and tall,Are mouldering in the mouldering hall;The terrace and the balustradeLie broken, weedy and decayed.

But blithe and tall the Rose of MayShoots upward through the ruin gray;With scented flower, and leaf pale green,Such rose as it hath never been,Left, like a noble deed, to graceThe memory of an ancient race.

The good-wife with a "humph" and a sigh forsook the battle,And flung her pots and pails about with much vindictive rattle;"O Lord, what sin did I commit in youthful days, and wild,That thou hast punished me in age with such a wayward child?"

Up stole the girl on tiptoe, so that none her step could hear,And laughing pressed an airy kiss behind the good-wife's ear.And she, as e'er relenting, sighed: "Oh, Heaven only knowsWhatever will become of you, my naughty Brier-Rose!"

The sun was high and summer sounds were teeming in the air;The clank of scythes, the cricket's whir, and swelling woodnotes rare,From fields and copse and meadow; and through the open doorSweet, fragrant whiffs of new-mown hay the idle breezes bore.

Then Brier-Rose grew pensive, like a bird of thoughtful mien,Whose little life has problems among the branches green.She heard the river brawling where the tide was swift and strong,She heard the summer singing its strange, alluring song.

And out she skipped the meadows o'er and gazed into the sky;Her heart o'erbrimmed with gladness, she scarce herself knew why,And to a merry tune she hummed, "Oh, Heaven only knowsWhatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!"

Whene'er a thrifty matron this idle maid espied,She shook her head in warning, and scarce her wrath could hide;For girls were made for housewives, for spinning-wheel and loom,And not to drink the sunshine and wild flower's sweet perfume.

And oft the maidens cried, when the Brier-Rose went by,"You cannot knit a stocking, and you cannot make a pie."But Brier-Rose, as was her wont, she cocked her curly head:"But I can sing a pretty song," full merrily she said.

And oft the young lads shouted, when they saw the maid at play:"Ho, good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, how do you do to-day?"Then she shook her tiny fist; to her cheeks the color flew:"However much you coax me, I'll never dance with you."

Thus flew the years light winged over Brier-Rose's head,Till she was twenty summers old and yet remained unwed.And all the parish wondered: "The Lord Almighty knowsWhatever will become of that naughty Brier-Rose!"

And while they wondered came the spring a-dancing o'er the hills;Her breath was warmer than of yore, and all the mountain rills,With their tinkling and their rippling and their rushing, filled the air,And the misty sounds of water forth-welling everywhere.

And in the valley's depth, like a lusty beast of prey,The river leaped and roared aloud and tossed its mane of spray;Then hushed again its voice to a softly plashing croon,As dark it rolled beneath the sun and white beneath the moon.

It was a merry sight to see the lumber as it whirledAdown the tawny eddies that hissed and seethed and swirled,Now shooting through the rapids and, with a reeling swing,Into the foam-crests diving like an animated thing.

But in the narrows of the rocks, where o'er a steep inclineThe waters plunged, and wreathed in foam the dark boughs of the pine,The lads kept watch with shout and song, and sent each straggling beamA-spinning down the rapids, lest it should lock the stream.

And yet--methinks I hear it now--wild voices in the night,A rush of feet, a dog's harsh bark, a torch's flaring light,And wandering gusts of dampness, and round us far and nigh,A throbbing boom of water like a pulse-beat in the sky.

The dawn just pierced the pallid east with spears of gold and red.As we, with boat-hooks in our hands, toward the narrows sped.And terror smote us; for we heard the mighty tree-tops sway,And thunder, as of chariots, and hissing showers of spray.

"Now, lads," the sheriff shouted, "you are strong, like Norway's rock:A hundred crowns I give to him who breaks the lumber lock!For if another hour go by, the angry waters' spoilOur homes will be, and fields, and our weary years of toil."

We looked each at the other; each hoped his neighbor wouldBrave death and danger for his home, as valiant Norsemen should.But at our feet the brawling tide expanded like a lake,And whirling beams came shooting on, and made the firm rock quake.

"Two hundred crowns!" the sheriff cried, and breathless stood the crowd."Two hundred crowns, my bonny lads!" in anxious tones and loud.But not a man came forward, and no one spoke or stirred,And nothing save the thunder of the cataract was heard.

But as with trembling hands and with fainting hearts we stood,We spied a little curly head emerging from the wood.We heard a little snatch of a merry little song,And saw the dainty Brier-Rose come dancing through the throng.

An angry murmur rose from the people round about."Fling her into the river," we heard the matrons shout;"Chase her away, the silly thing; for God himself scarce knowsWhy ever he created that worthless Brier-Rose."

Sweet Brier-Rose, she heard their cries; a little pensive smileAcross her fair face flitted that might a stone beguile;And then she gave her pretty head a roguish little cock:"Hand me a boat-hook, lads," she said; "I think I'll break the lock."

Derisive shouts of laughter broke from throats of young and old:"Ho! good-for-nothing Brier-Rose, your tongue was ever bold."And, mockingly, a boat-hook into her hands was flung,When, lo! into the river's midst with daring leaps she sprung!

We saw her dimly through a mist of dense and blinding spray;From beam to beam she skipped, like a water-sprite at play.And now and then faint gleams we caught of color through the mist:A crimson waist, a golden head, a little dainty wrist.

In terror pressed the people to the margin of the hill,A hundred breaths were bated, a hundred hearts stood still.For, hark! from out the rapids came a strange and creaking sound,And then a crash of thunder which shook the very ground.

The waters hurled the lumber mass down o'er the rocky steep.We heard a muffled rumbling and a rolling in the deep;We saw a tiny form which the torrent swiftly boreAnd flung into the wild abyss, where it was seen no more.

Ah, little naughty Brier-Rose, thou couldst not weave nor spin;Yet thou couldst do a nobler deed than all thy mocking kin;For thou hadst courage e'en to die, and by thy death to saveA thousand farms and lives from the fury of the wave.

And yet the adage lives, in the valley of thy birth,When wayward children spend their days in heedless play and mirth,Oft mothers say, half smiling, half sighing, "Heaven knowsWhatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!"

Aye nestling warm and tenderly,Our leaves of love were curledSo close and close about our weeWhite Rose of all the world.

With mystical faint fragranceOur house of life she filled;Revealed each hour some fairy towerWhere winged hopes might build!We saw--though none like us might see--Such precious promise pearledUpon the petals of our weeWhite Rose of all the world.

But evermore the haloOf angel-light increased,Like the mystery of moonlightThat folds some fairy feast.Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silentlyOur darling bud uncurled,And dropped in the grave--God's lap--our weeWhite Rose of all the world.

Our Rose was but in blossom,Our life was but in spring,When down the solemn midnightWe heard the spirits sing,"Another bud of infancyWith holy dews impearled!"And in their hands they bore our weeWhite Rose of all the world.

You scarce could think so small a thingCould leave a loss so large;Her little light such shadow flingFrom dawn to sunset's marge.In other springs our life may beIn bannered bloom unfurled,But never, never match our weeWhite Rose of all the world.

In her fightWith the sun.

The brave orb in state rose,And crimson he shone first;While from the high vineOf heaven the dawn burst,Staining the great roseFrom sky-line to sky-line.

The red rose of mornA white rose at noon turn’d;But at sunset rebornAll red again soon burn’d.Then the pale rose of noondayRebloom’d in the night,And spectrally white In the lightOf the moon lay.

But the vast rose Was scentless,And this is the reason:When the blast rose Relentless,And brought in due seasonThe snow rose, the last roseCongeal’d in its breath,Then came with it treason;The traitor was Death.

In lee-valleys crowded,The sheep and the birdsWere frozen and shroudedIn flights and in herds.In highwaysAnd bywaysThe young and the oldWere tortured and madden’dAnd kill’d by the cold.But many were gladden’dBy the beautiful last rose,The blossom of no nameThat came when the snow came,In darkness unfurl’d--The wonderful vast roseThat fill’d all the world.

But you in lowly calm abide,Scarce heeded save by breeze or bee;You know what splendor, pomp and prideFull oft your brilliant sisters see;What sorrow too, and bitter fears;What mad farewells and hopeless tears.

How some are kept in old, dear books,That once in bridal wreaths were worn;How some are kissed, with tender looks,And later tossed aside with scorn;How some their taintless petals layOn icy foreheads, pale as they!

So, while these truths you vaguely guess,A-bloom in many a lonesome spot,Shy roadside roses, may you blessThe fate that rules your modest lot,Like rustic maids that meekly standBelow the ladies of their land!

Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she toldHow beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold,Where, when all the pain was over,--where, when all the tears were shed,--He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing on his head.

Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love,How He'd built for little children great big playgrounds up above,Where they sang and played at hopscotch and at horses all the day,And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away.

This was Nell's idea of heaven,--just a bit of what she'd heard,With a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred.But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand,For he closed his eyes and murmured he could see the promised land.

"Yes," he whispered, "I can see it, I can see it, sister Nell,Oh, the children look so happy and they're all so strong and well;I can see them there with Jesus--He is playing with them, too!Let as run away and join them, if there's room for me and you."

She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spentIn the garret and the alley, where they starved to pay the rent;Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blowsDrove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close.

But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell this sinking boy,"You must die before you're able all the blessings to enjoy.You must die," she whispered, "Billy, and I am not even ill;But I'll come to you, dear brother,--yes, I promise that I will.

"You are dying, little brother, you are dying, oh, so fast;I heard father say to mother that he knew you couldn't last.They will put you in a coffin, then you'll wake and be up there,While I'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare."

"Yes, I know it," answered Billy. "Ah, but, sister, I don't mind,Gentle Jesus will not beat me; He's not cruel or unkind.But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I should like to take awaySomething, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day.

"In the summer you remember how the mission took us outTo a great green lovely meadow, where we played and ran about,And the van that took us halted by a sweet bright patch of land,Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's hand.

"Nell, I asked the good kind teacher what they called such flowers as those,And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was rose.I have never seen them since, dear--how I wish that I had one!Just to keep and think of you, Nell, when I'm up beyond the sun."

Not a word said little Nelly; but at night, when Billy slept,On she flung her scanty garments and then down the stairs she crept.Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn,Running on and running ever till the night had changed to dawn.

When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away,All around her, wrapped in snowdrift, there the open country lay.She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her feet,But there came no flowery gardens her poor tearful eyes to greet.

She had traced the road by asking, she had learnt the way to go;She had found the famous meadow--it was wrapped in cruel snow;Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant bladeShowed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down and prayed;

With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground,And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be found.Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew strangely dim;And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to seize her every limb.

"Oh, a rose!" she moaned, "good Jesus,--just a rose to take to Bill!"And as she prayed a chariot came thundering down the hill;And a lady sat there, toying with a red rose, rare and sweet;As she passed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet.

Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret,And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet;But the poor, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies,And she murmured, "Thank you, Jesus!" as she clasped the dainty prize.

Lo! that night from but the alley did a child's soul pass away,From dirt and sin and misery up to where God's children play.Lo! that night a wild, fierce snowstorm burst in fury o'er the land,And at morn they found Nell frozen, with the red rose in her hand.

Billy's dead, and gone to glory--so is Billy's sister Nell;Am I bold to say this happened in the land where angels dwell,--That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes,And that Nelly kissed her brother, and said, "Billy, here's your rose"?

The maiden exclaimed, "Thou seest, sir knight,Thy fingers of iron can only smite;And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered,I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered."

She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell;But she turned from the knight, and said, "Farewell!""Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize;I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes."

He lifted her up in his grasp of steel,And he mounted and spurred with furious heel;But her cry drew forth her hoary sire,Who snatched his bow from above the fire.

Swift from the valley the warrior fled,Swifter the bolt of the crossbow sped;And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horseWas the living man, and the woman's corse.

That morning the rose was bright of hue;That morning the maiden was fair to view;But the evening sun its beauty shedOn the withered leaves, and the maiden dead.

Out of here bosum the blosme sprong.

The ferste braunche is ful of myht,That sprang on Cyrstemesse nyht,The sterre schon over Bedlem bryht That is bothe brod and long.

The secunde braunche sprong to helle,The fendys power doun to felle:Therein myht non sowle dwelle; Blyssid be the time the rose sprong!

The thredde braunche is good and swote,It sprang to hevene crop and rote,Therein to dwellyn and ben our bote; Every day it schewit in prystes hond.

Prey we to here with gret honour,Che that bar the blyssid flowr,Che be our helpe and our socour And schyd us fro the fyndes bond.