His queen, the garden-queen, — his Rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchill’d by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by Nature given 
In softest incense back to heaven, 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
LORD BYRON. 
Look as the flower which lingeringly doth fade, 
The morning’s darling mate, the Summer’s queen, 
Spoil’d of that juice which kept it fresh and green, 
As high as it did raise, bows low the head. 
Drummond. 
A single Rose is shedding there 
Its lonely lustre, meek and pale: 
It looks as planted by despair— 
So white, so faint, the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 
And yet, though storms and blasts assail, 
And hands more rude than wintry sky, 
May wring it from the stem in vain— 
To-morrow sees it bloom again! 
