The rose - one of the most beautiful flowers. Be inspired by our collection of rose poems. A rose is a thing of beauty and the verses here reflect that. Roses are often associated with love. And the colors of the rose often represent different meanings.
We hope you find a rose poem that expresses your thoughts or gives you
words to consider.
Nobody knows this little Rose -
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it -
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey -
On its breast to lie -
Only a Bird will wonder -
Only a Breeze will sigh -
Ah Little Rose - how easy
For such as thee to die!
My Pretty Rose Tree
Poet: William Blake
A flower was offered to me;
Such a flower as May never bore. But I said I've a Pretty Rose-tree.
And I passed the sweet flower o'er.
Then I went to my Pretty Rose-tree:
To tend her by day and by night.
But my Rose turn'd away with jealousy:
And her thorns were my only delight.
Poet: Hilda Doolittle
You are clear
O rose, cut in rock,
hard as the descent of hail.
I could scrape the colour
from the petals
like spilt dye from a rock.
If I could break you
I could break a tree.
If I could stir
I could break a tree -
I could break you.
O wind, rend open the heat,
cut apart the heat,
rend it to tatters.
Fruit cannot drop
through this thick air -
fruit cannot fall into heat
that presses up and blunts
the points of pears
and rounds the grapes.
Cut the heat -
plough through it,
turning it on either side
of your path.
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 know
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose -
But were always a rose.
Roses, I See The Sweetest Roses
Poet: Richard Henry Stoddard
Roses, I see the sweetest roses,
As in the cool kiosk I pass.
Tied in a thousand fragrant posies.
And fastened to the roof with grass.
What has bewitched the grass I wonder?
It is the humblest weed that grows;
How comes it that it sits up yonder,
And on a level with the rose?
"Silence! " The grass said, and in sadness
Let fall its tears in pearls of dew;
"The generous man robs none of gladness.
And never scorns old friends for new.
I am no rose among the roses,
And yet there's not a child but knows
That the poor grass that tied these posies
Is from the Garden of the rose!"
Poet: Dora Read Goodale
I chanced upon a rose the other day,
A pale and faded flower, forgotten long.
And with it these unfinished verses lay,
The faltering echo of a deeper song: —
A perfect day in June, — the golden sun
Looks down upon the green and tangled way;
The summer song and silence are as one, —
The light and longing of a Summer's day!
O untaught harmony of Summer days!
The distant tinkle of a waterfall,
The blue blue sky that deepens as you gaze.
The wayward rose that blossoms by the wall!
Unspoiled and sweet in every country lane,
All dewy cool in maiden pink she blooms,
Still green and fragrant thro' the Summer rain,
When freer airs are thrilled with light perfumes.
She blossoms close beside the dusty way.
Her heart the careless passer-by may see, —
Sweet is her fragrance thro' the burning day,
But sweeter is her open secrecy!
Though he who will may pierce her leafy green,
Where sits the brooding robin on its nest,
The secret of her life is all unseen.
Unknown the impulse of her sweet unrest.
All day the winds about her cool the air.
Faint sounds the tinkle of the waterfall, —
What is the sudden answer you may bear,
O wayward rose, that blossoms by the wall?
Poet: Sir Walter Scott
"The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears;
The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.
O wildling rose, whom fancy thus endears,
I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave,
Emblem of hope and love through future years!"
Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Armandave,
What time the sun arose on Venachar's broad wave.
A Lesson From The Rose Bush
Poet: Howard Carleton Tripp
Beside a limpid stream a rose bush grew;
Its blossoms filled the air with rich perfume,
Upon it fell the summer's sun and dew,
The autumn gales swept roughly o'er its tomb.
Such are the scenes of life, — in childhood's hours
Hope comes to still the cares within the breast,
And like the rose bush with its flagrant flowers
Old age comes on and we are laid to rest.
The rose bush can this lesson well unfold:
Strive to excel in being good and wise.
Oh, learn it, children, ere thy lives are old!
Neath its foundation all thy glory lies.
To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses
As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert; when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose, 'twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As in the wand that Queen Titania wields.
And as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excelled:
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
My sense with their deliciousness was spelled:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled.
'Tis The Last Rose Of Summer
Poet: Thomas Moore
'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,
Or 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,
And 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?
Wild Rose Tree
Poet: Richard Watson Gilder
On the wild-rose tree
Many buds there be;
Yet each sunny hour
Hath but one fair flower.
Thou who wouldst be mine
Open wide thine eyes
In each sunny hour,
Pluck the one perfect flower.
The Lesson Of The Rose
Poet: Grace Pearl Bronaugh
I tore a rose apart,
Revealed its inmost heart,
Some hidden secret hoping to disclose.
The leaves fell to the ground;
I bared its heart, but found
No secret hidden, and I spoiled my rose!
No hand but one divine
Could make this rose of mine,
No power but God's create such loveliness;
But how the roses grow
I know not nor can know;
I only know their beauty is to bless.
O Life which made them live!
O Love which longs to give
All that thy creatures need or can desire!
The feeling overpowers
My soul that in the flowers
Thou gavest even more than we require.
Ye who philosophize
As others botanize,
Who pluck the truth apart shred after shred,
What recompense is there
To pay you for despair
When God forsakes you and your faith lies dead?
There is one Book, but one;
Although the summer sun
Calls forth a million roses every year,
There is one Book, but one!
This dark world were undone
If, like the roses, it should disappear.
Here is the thought which flows
In fragrance from the rose,
The rose which careless fingers pull apart:
Who seeks to penetrate
A thing so delicate
Should come with gentle hands and reverent heart;
Come with a mind devout,
Undaunted by a doubt;
Come with a soul subdued, a faith supreme,
As thou wouldst touch a rose
Softly - He will disclose
To thy hushed heart things which thou canst not dream!
Your spoken words are roses fine and sweet,
The songs you sing are perfect pearls of sound.
How lavish nature is about your feet,
To scatter flowers and jewels both around.
Blushing the stream of petal beauty flows,
Softly the white strings trickle down and shine.
Oh! speak to me, my love, I crave a rose.
Sing me a song, for I would pearls were mine.
Leaf By Leaf
Poet: Thomas B. Bishop
Leaf by leaf the roses fall,
Drop by drop the springs run dry,
One by one beyond recall,
Summer roses droop and die;
But the roses bloom again,
And the spring will gush anew,
In the pleasant April rain,
And the summer sun and dew.
So, in hours of deepest gloom,
When the springs of gladness fail,
And the roses in their bloom,
Droop like maidens wan and pale,
We shall find some hope that lies,
Like a silent germ apart,
Hidden far from careless eyes,
In the of the heart -
Some sweet hope to gladness wed,
That will spring afresh and new,
When grief's winter shall have fled,
Giving place to sun and dew;
Some sweet hope that breathes of spring,
Through the weary, weary time,
Budding for its blossoming,
In the spirit's silent clime.