CHAPTER XXII 
ROSES OF YESTERDAY 
“ Each morn a thousand Roses brings, you say ; 
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday ? ” 
— Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam , translated by Edward Fitzgerald, 1858. 
HE answer can be given the 
Persian poet that the Rose of 
Yesterday leaves again in the 
heart. The subtle fragrance of 
a Rose can readily conjure in 
our minds a dream of summers 
past, and happy summers to 
come. Many a flower lover since 
Chaucer has felt as did the poet : — 
“The savour of the Roses swote 
Me smote right to the herte rote.” 
The old-time Roses possess most fully this hid- 
den power. Sweetest of all was the old Cabbage 
Rose — called by some the Provence Rose — for its 
perfume “ to be chronicled and chronicled, and cut 
and chronicled, and all-to-be-praised.” Its odor is 
perfection ; it is the standard by which I compare all 
other fragrances. It is not too strong nor too cloy- 
ing, as are some Rose scents; it is the idealization of 
that distinctive sweetness of the Rose family which 
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