Roses and Rue

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by Sara Teasdale

Bring me the roses white and red,
⁠And take the laurel leaves away;
Yea, wreathe the roses round my head
⁠That wearies 'neath the crown of bay.

"We searched the wintry forests thro'
⁠And found no roses anywhere—
But we have brought a little rue
⁠To twine a circlet for your hair."

I would not pluck the rose in May,
⁠I wove a laurel crown instead;
And when the crown is cast away,
⁠They bring me rue—the rose is dead.

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