C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.


The smiles of God’s goodness.


Behold the glowing blush upon the rose.

T. B. Read.

And I will make the beds of roses.


The budding rose above the rose full blown.


From off this brier pluck a white rose with me.


The red rose on triumphant brier.


Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.


A white rosebud for a guerdon.

E. B. Browning.

  • Roses were sette of sweete savour,
  • With many roses that thei bere.
  • Chaucer.

  • Yon rose-buds in the morning dew,
  • How pure amang the leaves sae green!
  • Burns.

    When love came first to earth, the spring spread rose-beds to receive him.


    The rose that lives its little hour is prized beyond the sculptured flower.


    The gathered rose and the stolen heart can charm but for a day.

    Emma C. Embury.

    Happy are they who can create a rose-tree, or erect a honeysuckle.


    And ’tis my faith that every flower enjoys the air it breathes.


    ’Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone.


    O’ercanopied with luscious woodbine, with sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine.


    The rose is wont with pride to swell, and ever seeks to rise.


    It never rains roses; when we want more roses, we must plant more trees.

    George Eliot.

    The seasons alter; hoary-headed frosts fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.


  • All June I bound the rose in sheaves,
  • Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.
  • Robert Browning.

    Proud be the rose, with rain and dews her head impearling.


  • Rose of the desert! thus should woman be
  • Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.
  • Moore.

    The coming spring would first appear, and all this place with roses strew, if busy feet would let them grow.


    Mild May’s eldest child, the coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, the murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.


    The rosebuds lay their crimson lips together, and the green leaves are whispering to themselves.

    Amelia B. Welby.

  • And half in shade and half in sun;
  • The rose sat in her bower,
  • With a passionate thrill in her crimson heart.
  • Bayard Taylor.

  • For those roses bright, oh, those roses bright!
  • I have twined them in my sister’s locks
  • That are hid in the dust from sight.
  • Phœbe Cary.

  • Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
  • Old Time is still a-flying;
  • And this same flower that smiles to-day
  • To-morrow will be dying.
  • Herrick.

    A wreath of dewy roses, fresh and sweet, just brought from out the garden’s cool retreat.

    Julia C. R. Dorr.

  • Rose of the garden! such is woman’s lot—
  • Worshipp’d while blooming—when she fades, forgot.
  • Moore.

  • And when the parent-rose decays and dies,
  • With a resembling face the daughter-buds arise.
  • Prior.

  • The rose distils a healing balm
  • The beating pulse of pain to calm.
  • Moore.

  • 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.
  • Scott.

  • The rose saith in the dewy morn,
  • I am most fair;
  • Yet all my loveliness is born
  • Upon a thorn.
  • Christina G. Rossetti.

  • O, how much more doth Beauty beauteous seem,
  • By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
  • The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem,
  • For that sweet odor which doth in it live.
  • Shakespeare.

  • The rose
  • Propt at the cottage door with careful hands,
  • Bursts its green bud, and looks abroad for May.
  • Thos. Buchanan Read.

  • I am the one rich thing that morn
  • Leaves for the ardent noon to win;
  • Grasp me not, I have a thorn,
  • But bend and take my being in.
  • Harriet Prescott Spofford.

  • 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.
  • Moore.

  • Woo on, with odour wooing me,
  • Faint rose with fading core;
  • For God’s rose-thought, that blooms in thee,
  • Will bloom forevermore.
  • George MacDonald.

  • What would the rose with all her pride be worth,
  • Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?
  • Moore.

  • It is written on the rose
  • In its glory’s full array:
  • Read what those buds disclose—
  • “Passing away.”
  • Mrs. Hemans.

  • I wish I might a rose-bud grow
  • And thou wouldst cull me from the bower,
  • To place me on that breast of snow
  • Where I should bloom a wintry flower.
  • Dionysius.

  • And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest,
  • Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast,
  • Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air,
  • The soul of her beauty and love lay bare.
  • Shelley.

  • I watched a rose-bud very long
  • Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
  • Waiting to see the perfect flower:
  • Then when I thought it should be strong
  • It opened at the matin hour
  • And fell at even-song.
  • Christina G. Rossetti.

  • We bring roses, beautiful fresh roses,
  • Dewy as the morning and coloured like the dawn;
  • Little tents of odour, where the bee reposes,
  • Swooning in sweetness of the bed he dreams upon.
  • Thos. Buchanan Read.

  • The roses that in yonder hedge appear
  • Outdo our garden-buds which bloom within;
  • But since the hand may pluck them every day,
  • Unmarked they bud, bloom, drop, and drift away.
  • Jean Ingelow.

  • A sunbeam warm’d thee into bloom;
  • A zephyr’s kiss thy blushes gave:
  • The tears of ev’ning shed perfume,
  • And morn will beam upon thy grave.
  • How like to thee, thou transient flower,
  • The doom of all we love on earth;
  • Beauty, like thee, but decks an hour,
  • Decay feeds on it from its birth.
  • Bohn.

  • If on creation’s morn the king of heaven
  • To shrubs and flowers a sovereign lord had given,
  • O beauteous rose, he had anointed thee
  • Of shrubs and flowers the sovereign lord to be;
  • The spotless emblem of unsullied truth,
  • The smile of beauty and the glow of youth,
  • The garden’s pride, the grace of vernal bowers,
  • The blush of meadows, and the eye of flowers.
  • Bohn.

  • 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.
  • Moore.

  • O beautiful, royal Rose,
  • O Rose, so fair and sweet!
  • Queen of the garden art thou,
  • And I—the Clay at thy feet!
  • *****
  • Yet, O thou beautiful Rose!
  • Queen rose, so fair and sweet,
  • What were lover or crown to thee
  • Without the Clay at thy feet?
  • Julia C. R. Dorr.

  • It was nothing but a rose I gave her,—
  • Nothing but a rose
  • Any wind might rob of half its savor,
  • Any wind that blows.
  • *****
  • Withered, faded, pressed between these pages,
  • Crumpled, fold on fold,—
  • Once it lay upon her breast, and ages
  • Cannot make it old!
  • Harriet Prescott Spofford.

  • You love the roses—so do I. I wish
  • The sky would rain down roses, as they rain
  • From off the shaken bush. Why will it not?
  • Then all the valleys would be pink and white,
  • And soft to tread on. They would fall as light
  • As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be
  • Like sleeping and yet waking, all at once.
  • Over the sea, Queen, where we soon shall go,
  • Will it rain roses?
  • George Eliot.

  • How fair is the Rose! what a beautiful flower.
  • The glory of April and May!
  • But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
  • And they wither and die in a day.
  • Yet the Rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
  • Above all the flowers of the field;
  • When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost,
  • Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!
  • Isaac Watts.