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Edward Moore

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’T is now the summer of your youth. Time has not cropt the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.
--
The Gamester (1753), Act iii. Sc. 4.

 
Edward Moore

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Roses are shining in Picardy
In the hush of the silver dew;
Roses are flowering in Picardy
But there's never a rose like you.
And the roses will die with the summer time
And our roads may be far apart,
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'Tis the rose that I keep in my heart.

 
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And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
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Oh roses for the flush of youth,
And laurel for the perfect prime;
But pluck an ivy branch for me
Grown old before my time.

 
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These bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

 
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Everytime we got off the plane that day, three times they gave me the yellow roses of Texas. But in Dallas they gave me red roses. I thought how funny, red roses — so all the seat was full of blood and red roses.

 
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