 | Poems (1867) |  |
152
THE SUMMER ROSES.
Roses, roses, summer roses,
Shall I pluck you from the thorn?
Shall I leave you there till through you
Autumn breezes rustling, strew you
On the earth forlorn,
Roses, summer roses?
Shall I pluck you from the thorn?
Shall I leave you there till through you
Autumn breezes rustling, strew you
On the earth forlorn,
Roses, summer roses?
Answered then the summer roses,
“He who plucks the rose will find,
As his grasp upon it closes,
That the thorn is left behind:
Through its sharpness still must sweetness
Of the rose be brought to mind,
Roses, summer roses!”
“He who plucks the rose will find,
As his grasp upon it closes,
That the thorn is left behind:
153
Of the rose be brought to mind,
Roses, summer roses!”
So I plucked the summer roses,
And the cruel thorn I met;
Soon the sweetness of the roses
Made me all its wound forget;
But the roses, oh, the roses
Bloom and breathe around me yet,
Roses, summer roses!
And the cruel thorn I met;
Soon the sweetness of the roses
Made me all its wound forget;
But the roses, oh, the roses
Bloom and breathe around me yet,
Roses, summer roses!
| Poems (1867) | |