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— Alfred Austin"My virgin sense of sound was steeped In the music of young streams; And roses through the casement peeped, And scented all my dreams."
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Ah what avails the sceptred race, Ah what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee.
— Walter Savage Landor
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Your hands hold roses always in a way that says They are not only yours; the beautiful changes In such kind ways, Wishing ever to sunder Things and things' selves for a second finding, to lose For a moment all that it touches back to wonder.
— Richard Wilbur
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