Go, rose, my Chloe's bosom grace:
How happy should I prove,
Could I supply that envied place
With never-ending Love.

Accept, dear maid, now summer glows,
This pure, unsullied gem,
Love's emblem in a full-blown rose,
Just broken from the stem.

Accept it as a favorite flower
For thy soft breast to wear;
'Twill blossom there its transient hour,
A favorite of the fair.

Upon thy cheek its blossom glows,
As from a mirror clear,
Making thyself a living rose,
In blossom all the year.

It is a sweet and favorite flower
To grace a maiden's brow,
Emblem of Love without its power-
A sweeter rose art thou.

The rose, like hues of insect wing,
May perish in an hour;
'Tis but at best a fading thing,
But thou'rt a living flower.

The roses steeped in morning dews
Would every eye enthrall,
But woman, she alone subdues;
Her beauty conquers all.



by: John Clare

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