Rose Poems | Best Rose Poems to Express Your Thoughts


    As I Grew Older Poem by Langston Hughes

    It was a long time ago.
    I have almost forgotten my dream.
    But it was there then,
    In front of me,
    Bright like a sun—
    My dream.
    And then the wall rose,
    Rose slowly,
    Between me and my dream.
    Rose until it touched the sky—
    The wall.
    I am black.
    I lie down in the shadow.
    No longer the light of my dream before me,
    Above me.
    Only the thick wall.
    Only the shadow.
    My hands!
    My dark hands!
    Break through the wall!
    Find my dream!
    Help me to shatter this darkness,
    To smash this night,
    To break this shadow
    Into a thousand lights of sun,
    Into a thousand whirling dreams
    Of sun!



    The Rose Family Poem by Robert Frost

    The rose is a rose,
    And was always a rose.
    But the theory now goes
    That the apple’s a rose,
    And the pear is, and so’s
    The plum, I suppose.
    The dear only knows
    What will next prove a rose.
    You, of course, are a rose –
    But were always a rose.



    Clown In The Moon Poem by Dylan Thomas

    My tears are like the quiet drift
    Of petals from some magic rose;
    And all my grief flows from the rift
    Of unremembered skies and snows.

    I think, that if I touched the earth,
    It would crumble;
    It is so sad and beautiful,
    So tremulously like a dream.



    ‘perhaps Not To Be Is To Be Without Your Being.’ Poem by Pablo Neruda

    Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
    without your going, that cuts noon light
    like a blue flower, without your passing
    later through fog and stones,
    without the torch you lift in your hand
    that others may not see as golden,
    that perhaps no one believed blossomed
    the glowing origin of the rose,
    without, in the end, your being, your coming
    suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
    blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
    and it follows that I am, because you are:
    it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:
    and, because of love, you will, I will,
    We will, come to be.



    A White Rose Poem by John Boyle O’Reilly

    The red rose whispers of passion,
    And the white rose breathes of love;
    O, the red rose is a falcon,
    And the white rose is a dove.

    But I send you a cream-white rosebud
    With a flush on its petal tips;
    For the love that is purest and sweetest
    Has a kiss of desire on the lips



    My Pretty Rose Tree Poem by William Blake

    A flower was offered to me,
    Such a flower as May never bore;
    But I said ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’
    And I passed the sweet flower o’er.

    Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
    To tend her by day and by night;
    But my rose turned away with jealousy,
    And her thorns were my only delight.



    One Perfect Rose Poem by Dorothy Parker

    A single flow’r he sent me, since we met.
    All tenderly his messenger he chose;
    Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet –
    One perfect rose.

    I knew the language of the floweret;
    ‘My fragile leaves,’ it said, ‘his heart enclose.’
    Love long has taken for his amulet
    One perfect rose.

    Why is it no one ever sent me yet
    One perfect limousine, do you suppose?
    Ah no, it’s always just my luck to get
    One perfect rose.



    The Sick Rose Poem by William Blake

    O Rose, thou art sick!
    The invisible worm
    That flies in the night,
    In the howling storm,

    Has found out thy bed
    Of crimson joy:
    And his dark secret love
    Does thy life destroy.



    Morning Poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar

    The mist has left the greening plain,
    The dew-drops shine like fairy rain,
    The coquette rose awakes again
    Her lovely self adorning.

    The Wind is hiding in the trees,
    A sighing, soothing, laughing tease,
    Until the rose says “Kiss me, please,”
    ‘Tis morning, ’tis morning.

    With staff in hand and careless-free,
    The wanderer fares right jauntily,
    For towns and houses are, thinks he,
    For scorning, for scorning.
    My soul is swift upon the wing,
    And in its deeps a song I bring;
    Come, Love, and we together sing,
    “‘Tis morning, ’tis morning.”



    A Story For Rose On The Midnight Flight To Boston Poem by Anne Sexton

    Until tonight they were separate specialties,
    different stories, the best of their own worst.
    Riding my warm cabin home, I remember Betsy’s
    laughter; she laughed as you did, Rose, at the first
    story. Someday, I promised her, I’ll be someone
    going somewhere and we plotted it in the humdrum
    school for proper girls. The next April the plane
    bucked me like a horse, my elevators turned
    and fear blew down my throat, that last profane
    gauge of a stomach coming up. And then returned
    to land, as unlovely as any seasick sailor,
    sincerely eighteen; my first story, my funny failure.
    Maybe Rose, there is always another story,
    better unsaid, grim or flat or predatory.
    Half a mile down the lights of the in-between cities
    turn up their eyes at me. And I remember Betsy’s
    story, the April night of the civilian air crash
    and her sudden name misspelled in the evening paper,
    the interior of shock and the paper gone in the trash
    ten years now. She used the return ticket I gave her.
    This was the rude kill of her; two planes cracking
    in mid-air over Washington, like blind birds.
    And the picking up afterwards, the morticians tracking
    bodies in the Potomac and piecing them like boards
    to make a leg or a face. There is only her miniature
    photograph left, too long now for fear to remember.
    Special tonight because I made her into a story
    that I grew to know and savor.
    A reason to worry,
    Rose, when you fix an old death like that,
    and outliving the impact, to find you’ve pretended.
    We bank over Boston. I am safe. I put on my hat.
    I am almost someone going home. The story has ended.