Poems About Roses

Rose Poetry

red poetry rose

Poems about Roses, for anyone looking for a poem or verse about the beautiful rose flower. Roses, because of their sensuousness, and symbolic connections, have been a favorite metaphor in literature.

The first poet to refer to the rose as 'The Queen of Flowers' was Sappho, in her Ode to the Rose That name has persisted to this day.

The following rose poetry is about the beautiful flower of the rose. Enjoy!

Rose Poems...

The Message of The Roses

O royal rose,so full and bright,

That blushes in the garden fair,

Bathed in the sunshine's warmest light,

And filled with perfume rich and rare,

Thou art the queen, the floral queen,

Of all beneath the warm, blue sky,

And through the summer hours serene

Thou charm'st the beauty-seeking eye.

Daughter of June,type of the fair,

And token of affection's chain,

Some sister beauty thee shall wear

Who but a summer day shall reign.

In halls of splendor thou shalt shine

Amid the merry, bright and gay,

or sadly in the funeral shrine

Thy charms shall fade and pass away.

Alas! that beauty such as thine Must perish in a summer day

And all the fairest flowers that shine

Are born to blush and pass away!

If all the beautiful here must die

That shines like thee with royal pride.

What gems of splendor must there lie

In endless life beyond the tide!

by: WM. J. Johnson

Nineteenth century poets wrote many poems about roses. Elizabeth Barret Browning wrote many rose poems;

O Rose! who dares to name thee?

O Rose! who dares to name thee?

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet

But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble wheat,

Kept seven years in a drawer,thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee

Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away

An odour up the lane to last all day,

If breathing now, unsweetened would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,

And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,

If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grow incarnadined, because

It lay upon thee where the crimson was,

If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,

Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,

If lighting now, would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee,

And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,

And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,

If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognize thee,

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,

Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,

Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee

More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold

As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!

Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!

by: Elizabeth Barrett Browning

More Poems about roses: Early poets wrote many poems about roses read more....

Tis the Last Rose of Summer

'Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone,

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes,

To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem,

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter,

Thy leaves o'er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

From Love's shining circle

The gems drop away.

When true hearts lie withered

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit,

This bleak world alone?

by:Thomas Moore

Many poems about roses became famous, and were set to music, or used in plays. We know that there have been poems about roses as far back as ancient times, and that poems about roses were popular at the time.

The Deserted Garden

I mind me in the days departed,

How often underneath the sun

With childish bounds I used to run

To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanished quite

And wheresoe'er had struck the spade,

The greenest grasses Nature laid

To sanctify her right.

I called the place my wilderness,

For no one entered there but I

The sheep looked in, the grass to espy,

And passed it ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild,

And spread their boughs enough about

To keep both sheep and shepherd out,

But not a happy child.

Adventurous joy it was for me!

I crept beneath the boughs, and found

A circle smooth of mossy ground

Beneath a poplar tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in,

Bedropt with roses waxen-white

Well satisfied with dew and light

And careless to be seen.

Long years ago it might befall,

When all the garden flowers were trim,

The grave old gardener prided him

On these the most of all.

Some lady, stately overmuch,

Here moving with a silken noise,

Has blushed beside them at the voice

That likened her to such.

And these, to make a diadem,

She often may have plucked and twined,

Half-smiling as it came to mind

That few would look at them.

Oh, little thought that lady proud,

A child would watch her fair white rose,

When buried lay her whiter brows,

And silk was changed for shroud!

Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns

For men unlearned and simple phrase,)

A child would bring it all its praise

By creeping through the thorns!

To me upon my low moss seat,

Though never a dream the roses sent

Of science or love's compliment,

I ween they smelt as sweet.

It did not move my grief to see

The trace of human step departed

Because the garden was deserted,

The blither place for me!

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken

Has childhood 'twixt the sun and sward

We draw the moral afterward,

We feel the gladness then.

And gladdest hours for me did glide

In silence at the rose-tree wall

A thrush made gladness musical

Upon the other side .

Nor he nor I did e'er incline

To peck or pluck the blossoms white

How should I know but roses might

Lead lives as glad as mine?

To make my hermit-home complete,

I brought dear water from the spring

Praised in its own low murmuring,

And cresses glossy wet.

And so, I thought, my likeness grew

(Without the melancholy tale)

To "Gentle Hermit of the Dale,"

And Angelina too.

For oft I read within my nook

Such minstrel stories; till the breeze

Made sounds poetic in the trees,

And then I shut the book.

If I shut this wherein I write

I hear no more the wind athwart

Those trees, nor feel that childish heart

Delighting in delight.

My childhood from my life is parted,

My footstep from the moss which drew

Its fairy circle round: anew The garden is deserted.

Another thrush may there rehearse

The madrigals which sweetest are

No more for me! myself afar

Do sing a sadder verse.

Ah me, ah me! when erst I lay

In that child's-nest so greenly wrought,

I laughed unto myself and thought

"The time will pass away."

And still I laughed, and did not fear

But that, whene'er was past away

The childish time, some happier play

My womanhood would cheer.

I knew the time would pass away.

And yet, beside the rose-tree wall,

Dear God, how seldom, if at all,

Did I look up to pray!

The time is past; and now that grows

The cypress high among the trees,

And I behold white sepulchres

As well as the white rose,

When graver, meeker thoughts are given,

And I have learnt to lift my face,

Reminded how earth's greenest place

The color draws from heaven,

It something saith for earthly pain,

But more for Heavenly promise free,

That I who was, would shrink to be

That happy child again.

by: Elizabeth Barret Browning

As far as poems about roses go, read this next one...

The Rose is a Rose

The rose is a rose,

And was always a rose.

But the theory now goes

That the apple's a rose,

And the pear is, and so's

The plum, I suppose.

The dear only knows

What will next prove a rose.

You, of course, are a rose

But were always a rose.

by:Robert Frost

More Poems about Roses...

Loveliest of lovely things they are,

On earth that soonest pass away.

The rose that lives its little hour

Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

by: William Cullen Bryant 1794-1878

You violets that first appear

Be your pure purple mantles known,

Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the Spring were all your own,

What are you when the Rose is blown?

by: Sir Henry Wotton 1568-1639

He who would have beautiful roses in his garden

must have beautiful roses in his heart.

By: Dean Hole 1870

I hope you've enjoyed reading these poems about roses, I will continue to add poems about roses as I find them. Please continue to visit the many pages of this site, Thanks for visiting!

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