 | Poems by Rose Terry |  |
88
MY RED CARNATION.
S. C. W.
Redder than any summer-rose,
Far redder than the garnet glows,
And set beside the lily's snows,
Fair blossom, bloom for me!
With Indian breath of sun-kissed spice,
And dainty petals, point-device,
What florist ever knew thy price,
Or half thy charms could see?
Far redder than the garnet glows,
And set beside the lily's snows,
Fair blossom, bloom for me!
With Indian breath of sun-kissed spice,
And dainty petals, point-device,
What florist ever knew thy price,
Or half thy charms could see?
As tropic in thy breathing glow,
As if Asiatic winds did blow
Thy crown of beauty to and fro,
And sway thy slender stem;
Yet statelier in floral pride
Than any queen that flaunts a bride,
Such quaint and courtly graces glide
Around thy diadem.
As if Asiatic winds did blow
Thy crown of beauty to and fro,
And sway thy slender stem;
Yet statelier in floral pride
Than any queen that flaunts a bride,
Such quaint and courtly graces glide
Around thy diadem.
89
Thy leaf should point its verdant lance
By castle-walls of old romance,
Where fountains to the soft airs dance,
And glittering peacocks trail;
Or white swans break the sullen sleep
Of some old lake, set dark and deep
Among the trees that o'er it weep
When autumn eves grow pale.
By castle-walls of old romance,
Where fountains to the soft airs dance,
And glittering peacocks trail;
Or white swans break the sullen sleep
Of some old lake, set dark and deep
Among the trees that o'er it weep
When autumn eves grow pale.
The violet hath a fond perfume,
The passion-flower a mystic bloom,
And heather spreads its cloud of gloom
O'er highland mountains bare;
The red rose veils a heart of flame,
And blushes with unconscious shame,
The snow-drop fits its icy name,
Most frigid and most fair.
The passion-flower a mystic bloom,
And heather spreads its cloud of gloom
O'er highland mountains bare;
The red rose veils a heart of flame,
And blushes with unconscious shame,
The snow-drop fits its icy name,
Most frigid and most fair.
But thou art love that pride adorns
The rose's heart without its thorns,
A child of summer's fragrant morns,
Dew-christened by the night.
Ah! cold and fair to others be,
But spread thy glowing heart to me,
And, as thou wert, still ever be
My darling and delight.
The rose's heart without its thorns,
A child of summer's fragrant morns,
Dew-christened by the night.
Ah! cold and fair to others be,
But spread thy glowing heart to me,
And, as thou wert, still ever be
My darling and delight.
| Poems by Rose Terry | |