Thomas Moore on Roses

“Why do we shed the rose's bloom Upon the cold, insensate tomb? Can flowery breeze or odor's breath, Affect the slumbering chill of death?”

“Rose! thou art the sweetest flower, That ever drank the amber shower; Rose! thou art the fondest child Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.”

“Oh! there is naught in nature bright Whose roses do not shed their light; When morning paints the Orient skies, Her fingers burn with roseate dyes.”

“There's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long, In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song.”

“Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose The golden sunset leaves its ray, So like a gem the flow'ret glows, We thither bend our headlong way; And though we find no treasure there, We bless the rose that shines so fair.”

“Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd! Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd— You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.”