Poems (Terry, 1861)/A rosary
A ROSARY.
Roses, roses, roses, All the world over;Daisies in the mowing, On the hill-side clover;But the sweet sad roses And the mad bee-lover Come in June.
Roses, roses, roses, Red in the grasses,Snowy in the garden. When the hot sun passesThen the singing summer dies, And snow the rose surpasses, In the moon.
Oh, the fair sad roses! Sad for their loving,Left alone to rain-drops, When the bee goes roving, And their honey-sweet lips To no long kiss moving, Only die!
Oh, the love-red roses! With their golden centres,Sweeter than spices; Where the south-wind enters,And on the bee's track. The butterfly ventures With his lie!