For the crown of our life as it closes Is darkness, the fruit thereof dust; No thorns go as deep as a rose's, And love is more cruel than lust. Time turns the old days to derision, Our loves into corpses or wives; And marriage and death and division Make barren our lives.
Till the rose's lips grow pale With her sighs.
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?
The fairest things have fleetest end: Their scent survives their close, But the rose's scent is bitterness To him that loved the rose!Francis Thompson
The honey-bee that wanders all day long The field, the woodland, and the garden o'er, To gather in his fragrant winter store, Humming in calm content his winter song, Seeks not alone the rose's glowing breast, The lily's dainty cup, the violet's lips, But from all rank and noxious weeds he sips The single drop of sweetness closely pressed Within the poison chalice.Anne C. Lynch Botta
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