We might well call this short Mock-play of ours
A Posie made of Weeds instead of Flowers;
Yet such have been presented to your noses,
And there are such, I fear, who thought 'em Roses.
I'm not trying to say,
That I'm smelling of roses,
But when will we tire,
Of putting shit up our noses.
You are debauched and shameless.
You have spoken roses of me.
And a dirty lickspittle.
You crown me with lilies.
And a parricide.
You don't know that you are sprinkling me with gold.
Certainly not so formerly, but with lead.
But now this is an ornament to me.
I'd be a butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet.
Strew on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew.
In quiet she reposes:
Ah! would that I did too.
Sweet and lovely, sweeter than the roses in May,
And she loves me, there is nothing more I can say.
Sister, awake! close not your eyes,
The day her light discloses;
And the bright morning doth arise
Out of her bed of roses.
Oh dear and laughing, lost to me,
Hidden in grey Eternity,
I shall attain, with burning feet,
To you and to the mercy-seat!
The ages crumble down like dust,
Dark roses, deviously thrust
And scattered in sweet wine but I,
I shall lift up to you my cry,
And kiss your wet lips presently
Beneath the ever-living Tree.
This in my heart I keep for goad!
Somewhere, in Heaven she walks that road.
Somewhere... in Heaven... she walks... that... road...
If you find yourself born in Barnsley and then set your sights on being Virginia Woolf it is not going to be roses all the way.
The roses are a form of gratitude, it is my memory to the public. And the white clothes already comes from a long time. The white is the unification of all the colors and it symbolizes my spiritual master, that accompanies me always.
I know love is eternal, so also are folly, lies and roses.