The Ritual Master The never ending beauty of the Rose has been the inspiration of poets for centuries. Join me today in dreaming of the Victorian era and its special attention to the symbols of flowers. Let’s read together some poems dedicated to the Queen of the garden. You can also hear me read them in the video below.
Roses
by Mary Francis Butts
(1890-1937)
“It is summer,” says a fairy,
“Bring me tissue light and airy;
Bring me colors of the rarest,
Search the rainbow for the fairest–
Sea-shell pink and sunny yellow,
Kingly crimson, deep and mellow,
Faint red in Aurora beaming,
And the white in pure pearls gleaming;
“Bring me diamonds, shining brightly
Where the morning dew lies lightly;
Bring me gold dust, by divining
Where the humming-bird is mining;
Bring me sweets as rich as may be
From the kisses of a baby;–
With an art no fay discloses
I am going to make some roses.”
The Time of Roses
by Thomas Hood
(1799-1845)
It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses—
We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
That churlish season never frown’d
On early lovers yet:
O no—the world was newly crown’d
With flowers when first we met!
‘Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast;
It was the time of roses—
We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
She sets the world on fire
Christina Georgina Rossetti
(1830-1894)
The lily has a smooth stalk,
Will never hurt your hand;
But the rose upon her briar
Is lady of the land.
There ’s sweetness in an apple tree,
And profit in the corn;
But lady of all beauty
Is a rose upon a thorn.
When with moss and honey
She tips her bending briar,
And half unfolds her glowing heart,
She sets the world on fire.
A White Rose
John Boyle O’Reilly
(1844-1890)
The red rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
Oh, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.
But I send you a cream-white rosebud
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.
Wild Roses and Snow
Mackenzie Bell
(1856-1930)
How sweet the sight of roses
In English lanes of June,
Where every flower uncloses
To meet the kiss of noon.
How strange the sight of roses—
Roses both sweet and wild—
Seen where a valley closes
‘Mid mountain heights up-piled.
Upon whose sides remaining
Is strewn the purest snow,
By its chill power restraining
The tide of spring’s soft glow.
Yet God, who gave the pureness
To yon fair mountain snow,
Gives also the secureness
Whereby these roses blow.
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