“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes.”
William Shakespeare
rose
All posts tagged rose
And she was fair as is the rose in May. — Geoffrey Chaucer
Then what is the answer?- Not to be deluded by dreams.
To know that great civilizations have broken down into violence,
and their tyrants come, many times before.
When open violence appears, to avoid it with honor or choose
the least ugly faction; these evils are essential.
To keep one’s own integrity, be merciful and uncorrupted
and not wish for evil; and not be duped
By dreams of universal justice or happiness.
These dreams will not be fulfilled.
To know this, and know that however ugly the parts appear
the whole remains beautiful. A severed hand
Is an ugly thing and man dissevered from the earth and stars
and his history… for contemplation or in fact…
Often appears atrociously ugly. Integrity is wholeness,
the greatest beauty is Organic wholeness,
the wholeness of life and things, the divine beauty of the universe.
Love that, not man
Apart from that, or else you will share man’s pitiful confusions,
or drown in despair when his days darken.
The Morning Comes Before the Sun
by Susan Coolidge
Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose
From out night’s gray and cloudy sheath;
Softly and still it grows and grows,
Petal by petal, leaf by leaf;
Each sleep-imprisoned creature breaks
Its dreamy fetters, one by one,
And love awakes, and labor wakes,–
The morning comes before the sun.
What is this message from the light
So fairer far than light can be?
Youth stands a-tiptoe, eager, bright,
In haste the risen sun to see;
Ah! check thy lunging, restless heart,
Count the charmed moments as they run,
It is life’s best and fairest part,
This morning hour before the sun.
When once thy day shall burst to flower,
When once the sun shall climb the sky,
And busy hour by busy hour,
The urgent noontide draws anigh;
When the long shadows creep abreast,
To dim the happy task half done,
Thou wilt recall this pause of rest,
This morning hush before the sun.
To each, one dawning and one dew,
One fresh young hour is given by fate,
One rose flush on the early blue.
Be not impatient then, but wait!
Clasp the sweet peace on earth and sky,
By midnight angels woven and spun;
Better than day its prophecy,–
The morning comes before the sun.
In me, past, present, future meet
To hold long chiding conference.
My lusts usurp the present tense
And strangle Reason in his seat.
My loves leap through the future’s fence
To dance with dream-enfranchised feet.
In me the cave-man clasps the seer,
And garlanded Apollo goes
Chanting to Abraham’s deaf ear.
In me the tiger sniffs the rose.
Look in my heart, kind friends, and tremble,
Since there your elements assemble.
🐯
Siegfried Sassoon
A Song of Spring and Autumn
Francis Turner Palgrave
IN the season of white wild roses
We two went hand in hand:
But now in the ruddy autumn
Together already we stand.
O pale pearl-necklace that wandered
O’er the white-thorn’s tangled head!
The white-thorn is turned to russet,
The pearls to purple and red!
On the topmost orchard branches
It then was crimson and snow,
Where now the gold-red apples
Burn on the turf below.
And between the trees the children
In and out run hand in hand;
And, with smiles that answer their smiling,
We two together stand.
“If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together… there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart… I’ll always be with you.” ― A.A. Milne
Your dreamers may dream it
The shadow of a dream,
Your sages may deem it
A bubble on the stream;
Yet our kingdom draweth nigher
With each dawn and every day,
Through the earthquake and the fire
‘Love will find out the way.’
Alfred Noyes
Repost – Hiatus
Blake
Jorge Luis Borges
Where will the rose in your hand exist
that lavishes, without knowing, intimate gifts?
Not in colour, because the flower is blind,
nor in the sweet inexhaustible fragrance,
nor in the weight of the petal. Those things
are sparse and remote echoes.
The real rose is more elusive.
Perhaps a pillar or a battle
or a firmament of angels, or an infinite
world, secret and necessary,
or the joy of a god we will not see
or a silver planet in another sky
or a terrible archetype lacking
the form of the rose.
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Maverick Mist 