So, in the passing of a day, doth pass
The bud and blossom of the life of man
Torquato Tasso (1544–1595), Jerusalem Delivered (Gerusalemme Liberata), Verses XIV & XV, Canto 16, translated by Edward Fairfax (1560–1635)
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Image:
Rosa indica vulgaris by Pierre-Joseph Redouté (1759ꟷ1840)
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No April can revive thy wither’d flowers,
Whose blooming grace adorns thy beauty now
Samuel Daniel (1562–1619), Poem 31 from Delia (1592 version)
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O my luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O my luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly played in tune.
Robert Burns (1759–1796), A Red, Red Rose
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Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest,
And on her silver cross soft amethyst,
And on her hair a glory, like a saint:
She seem’d a splendid angel, newly drest
John Keats (1795–1821), from The Eve of St Agnes (XXV)
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It was not in the Winter
Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses—
We pluck’d them as we pass’d!
Thomas Hood (1798–1845), Ballad: Time of Roses
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The rose-lipt girls are sleeping
In fields where roses fade.
Alfred Edward Housman (1859–1936), from A Shropshire Lad (LIV)
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All things uncomely and broken, all things worn out and old, (...)
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
William Butler Yeats (1865–1939), The Lover Tells Of the Rose In His Heart
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They are not long, the days of wine and roses
Ernest Dowson (1867–1900), Vitae Summa Brevis
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