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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=409114" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Messenger Rose</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=409114" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">If you have seen a richer glow,<br>Pray, tell me where your roses blow!<br>Look! coral-leaved! and -- mark these spots<br>Red staining red in crimson clots,<br>Like a sweet lip bitten through<br>In a pique. There, where that hue<br>Is spilt in drops, some fairy thing<br>Hath gashed the azure of its wing,<br>Or thence, perhaps, this very morn,<br>Plucked the splinters of a thorn.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=409114" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Rose! I make thy bliss my care!<br>In my lady's dusky hair<br>Thou shalt burn this coming night,<br>With even a richer crimson light.<br>To requite me thou shalt tell --<br>What I might not say as well --<br>How I love her; how, in brief,<br>On a certain crimson leaf<br>In my bosom, is a debt<br>Writ in deeper crimson yet.<br>If she wonder what it be --<br>But she'll guess it, I foresee --<br>Tell her that I date it, pray,<br>From the first sweet night in May.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Henry+Timrod">Henry Timrod</a></strong></div>

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