Poetry Archives

Roses, Senors, roses!
  Love is subtly hid
In the fragrant roses,
  Blown in gay Madrid.
Roses, Senors, roses!
  Look, look, look, and see
Love hanging in the roses,
  Like a golden bee!
Ha! ha! shake the roses—
  Hold a palm below;
Shake him from the roses,
  Catch the vagrant so!

High I toss the roses
  From my brown palm up;
Like the wine that bubbles
  From a golden cup.
Catch the roses, Senors,
  Light on finger tips;
He who buys red roses,
  Dreams of crimson lips!
Tinkle! my fresh roses,
  With the rare dews wet;
Clink! my crisp, red roses,
  Like a castanet!

Roses, Senors, roses,
  Come, Hidalgo, buy!
Proudly wait my roses
  For thy rose’s eye
Be thy rose as stately
  As a pacing deer;
Worthy are my roses
  To burn behind her ear.
Ha I ha! I can see thee,
  Where the fountains foam,
Twining my red roses
  In her golden comb!

Roses, Donnas, roses,
  None so fresh as mine,
Pluck’d at rose of morning
  By our Lady’s shrine.
Those that first I gather’d
  Laid I at her feet,
That is why my roses
  Still are fresh and sweet.
Roses, Donnas, roses!
  Roses waxen fair!
Acolytes my roses,
  Censing ladies’ pray’r!

Roses, roses, roses!
  Hear the tawny bull
Thund’ring in the circus—
  Buy your arms full.
Roses by the dozen!
  Roses by the score!
Pelt the victor with them—
  Bull or Toreador!