Roses—they are here!
Here in all their splendor,
Royal and austere
Delicate and tender;
Each and every kind
June at last discloses—
Everywhere I look I find
Roses—roses.

Rose whose heart is red
Like the blood of heroes,
Rose with yellow head,
And the modest tea-rose,
Grow beside the wall
Or in garden closes,
Till the teeming world is all
Roses—roses.

Roses proud and bright,
Scorning to be lowly,
Roses meek and white,
Holiest of the holy,
Tell me is it true
That, though none supposes,
Summer decks her bed with you—
Roses—roses.

Roses pale and thin,
Faintly touched with fire,
Roses that have been
Wedded to the briar,
Overrun the land,
For my joy reposes
Here 'mid Song and Sunlight, and
Roses, roses, roses.