That which God said to the rose, and caused it to laugh in full-blown beauty, He said to my heart, and made it a hundred times more beautiful.
And she was fair as is the rose in May.
Writing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.
Publishing a volume of verse is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.
No bird has ever uttered note That was not in some first bird’s throat; Since Eden’s freshness and man’s fall No rose has been original.
All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.
A Leprecaun without a pot of gold is like a rose without perfume, a bird without a wing, or an inside without an outside.
The rose and the thorn, and sorrow and gladness are linked together.
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
What was the freedom to which the adult human being rose in the morning, if each act was held back or inspired by the overpowering ghost of a little child?