Every Rose Hath Its Thorn.

        There was a maiden all forlorn,
        She loved a youth, his name was Thorn,
        But he was shy for to disclose
        How he loved dear the sweet May Rose.

        Lustre sweet it would give to Thorn,
        If this fair flower would it adorn,
        Said he all other names above
        Your charming name alone I love.

        Said she of beauty 'tis soon shorn,
        Unless that it is joined to Thorn,
        It very soon doth droop and die,
        And she heaved a gentle sigh.

        Said he we'll wed to-morrow morn,
        No more from me you shall be torn,
        For you will banish all my woes,
        And near my heart I'll wear the rose.

        Now little rose buds they are born,
        All clinging to the parent Thorn,
        In grace and beauty each one grows,
        Full worthy of the sweet May Rose.

        Some flowers they only shed their bloom
        In the sweet month of leafy June,
        But May doth bloom each month in year
        A fragrant Rose forever dear.

James McIntyre

James McIntyre was a Canadian poet, most notable for his poetry concerning cheese, cheese-making, dairying, and dairy products. Often referred to as 'The Cheese Poet,' McIntyre's work is celebrated for its earnestness and unintentional humor, making him both a beloved and an infamous figure in literary circles. He emigrated from Scotland to Canada in 1851 and settled in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he became a successful businessman and community leader.

James McIntyre

Lines On The Finding Of A Young Man's Body In Toronto Bay.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Shelly.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Jackal And Child.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Province Of Ontario.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English

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Love's Emblem

Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace:
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Accept, dear maid, now Summer glows,
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The rose, like hues of insect wing,
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Rose.

When the evening broods quiescent
Over mountain, vale and lea,
And the moon uplifts her crescent
Far above the peaceful sea,
Little Rose, the fisher's daughter,
Passes in her cedar skiff
O'er the dreamy waste of water,
To the signal on the cliff.

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Young Adonis though he be,
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Ode 8

Singe wee the Rose
Then which no flower there growes
    Is sweeter:
And aptly her compare
With what in that is rare
    A parallel none meeter.

Or made poses,
Of this that incloses
    Suche blisses,
That naturally flusheth
As she blusheth
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Or if strew'd
When with the morning dew'd
    Or stilling,
Or howe to sense expos'd
All which in her inclos'd,
    Ech place with sweetnes filling.

That most renown'd
By Nature richly crownd
    With yellow,
Of that delitious layre
And as pure, her hayre
    Vnto the same the fellowe,

Fearing of harme
Nature that flower doth arme
    From danger,
The touch giues her offence
But with reuerence
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Michael Drayton

To A Rosebud In Humble Life

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    Although fortune frown upon thee,
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    Which their wealth can never gain;
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    Such as fashion apes in vain.

    When fit time and reason grant thee
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The Rose.

    It tossed its head at the wooing breeze;
        And the sun, like a bashful swain,
    Beamed on it through the waving frees
        With a passion all in vain, -
    For my rose laughed in a crimson glee,
    And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

    The honey-bee came there to sing
        His love through the languid hours,
    And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king
        Might boast of his palace-towers:
    But my rose bowed in a mockery,
    And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

    The humming-bird, like a courtier gay,
        Dipped down with a dalliant song,
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James Whitcomb Riley

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LV.

^[1]


While we invoke the wreathed spring,
Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;
Resplendent rose, the flower of flowers,
Whose breath perfumes the Olympian bowers;
Whose virgin blush, of chastened dye,
Enchants so much our mortal eye.
When pleasure's spring-tide season glows.
The Graces love to wreathe the rose;
And Venus, in its fresh-blown leaves,
An emblem of herself perceives.
Oft hath the poet's magic tongue
The rose's fair luxuriance sung;
And long the Muses, heavenly maids,
Have reared it in their tuneful shades.
When, at the early glance of morn,
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,
'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence
To cull the timid floweret thence,
And wipe with tender hand away
The tear that on its blushe...

Thomas Moore