The Tea-Rose

Most beautiful of all the roses Is this half-open bud, whose bare, Unpetalled heart a dream discloses Of carmine very faint and fair.

I wonder, was it once a white rose, Till butterfly too ardent spoke A language soft, and in the light rose A shyer, warmer tint awoke?

Its delicate fabric hath the colour Of lovely and velutinous skin. Its perfect freshness maketh duller Environing hues incarnadine.

For as some rare patrician features Eclipse the brows of ruddier gleam, So masquerade as rustic creatures Gay sisters of this rose supreme.

But, dear one, if your hand caress it, And raise it for its sweet perfume, Ere yet your velvet cheek shall press it, 'T will fade before a fairer bloom.

No rose in all the world so tender, That gloweth in the springtime fleet, But shall its every charm surrender Unto your seventeen years, my sweet.

A face hath more than petal's power: A pure heart's blood that blushing flows O'er youth's nobility, is flower High sovereign over every rose.