It was roses, roses, all the way, / With myrtle mixed in my path like mad.

All June I bound the rose in sheaves, Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves.

How sad and bad and mad it was - / But then, how it was sweet!

Another Boehme with a tougher book / And subtler meanings of what roses say.

'Twas a yellow rose, By that south window of the little house, My cousin Romney gathered with his hand On all my birthdays, for me. save the last; And then I shook the tree too rough, too rough, For roses to stay after.

A white rosebud for a guerdon.