Roses
There are roses white, there are roses red,
Shyly rosy, tenderly white;-
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
Which shall I cull from the garden-bed
To greet my love on this very night?
There are roses white, there are roses red.
The red should say what I would have said;
Ah! how they blush in the evening light!
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
The white are pale as the snow new-spread,
Pure as young eyes and half as bright;
There are roses white, there are roses red.
Roses white, from the heaven dew-fed,
Roses red for a passion’s plight;
Which shall I choose to wreathe my head?
Summer twilight is almost fled,
Say, dear love! have I chosen right?
There are roses white, there are roses red,
All twined together to wreathe my head.
L. S. Bevington.