It was not in the Winter Our loving lot was cast;
It was the time of roses— We pluck’d them as we pass’d
That churlish season never frown’d On early lovers yet:
O no—the world was newly crown’d With flowers when first we met
Bring me the roses white and red,
And take the laurel leaves away;
Yea, wreathe the roses round my
That wearies 'neath the crown of bay
I
I dream of a red-rose tree
And which of its roses
Is the dearest rose to me
Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love's song,
We are parted too
This morning I vowed I would bring thee my roses,
They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses;
But the breast-knots were broken, the roses went free
The breast-knots were broken; the roses together Floated forth on the wing...
O dearest, canst thou tell me why The rose should be so pale
And why the azure violet Should wither in the vale
And why the lark should in the cloud So sorrowfully sing
And why from loveliest balsam-buds A scent of death should spring
The man who wants a garden fair,
Or small or very big,
With flowers growing here and there,
Must bend his back and dig
О легкие розы, кто к нам
Бросает вас в сон дневной
— Октябрь прислонился к окнам