A Rosary

by Rose Terry Cooke

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 passes
Then 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!