All the world glows with roses,because it is sure of its beauty, the rose makes terrible demands on us.
And I wove the thing to a random rhyme, For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.
I don't know whether nice people tend to grow roses, or growing roses makes people nice.
When pleasure's blooming season glows, the graces love to twine the rose.
The best rose-bush, after all, is not that which has the fewest thorns but that which bears the finest roses.
A rose is an argument. It proclaims the triumph of beauty over brutality, of gentleness over violense, of the ephemeral over the lasting, and of the universal over the particular. The same rose bursts into bloom on the North Cape and in the Sahara desert.
Who reaches with a clumsy hand for a rose must not complain if the thorns scratch.
A rose, bent by the wind and pricked by thorns, yet has its heart turned upwards
A flash of dew, a bee or two, A breeze, a caper in the trees, -- And I'm a rose!
When love came first to Earth, the Spring spread rose-beds to receive him
A little rose that laughs upon its stem, one of the sweets with which the gardens teem, in value soars above an eastern gem -- if tendered as a token of esteem.
