The rose is 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.
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!"
The Beauty Of The Rose
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
In nature's gallery, the rose takes the stage,
Exquisite beauty, a marvel to engage.
Vibrant reds, delicate pinks, and purest whites,
A kaleidoscope of colors, delightful sights.
Each petal unfolds, a unique work of art,
Graceful curves and textures, capturing the heart.
From buds to blooms, their splendor does unfurl,
Roses, nature's masterpiece, beauty's eternal pearl.
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 washed 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.
'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?
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.