by Arlo Bates (1850 - 1918)

Language: English 
I kiss the rosebud which you wore, 
Yet know not why I love it so ; 
'Twas but a simple flower before 
It blushed against thy breast of snow. 

But since, to such a worth 'tis grown, 
It is a guerdon most divine ; 
Because the touch which it has known, 
The breast which it has pressed, were thine.

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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]

This text was added to the website: 2009-05-13
Line count: 8
Word count: 57