One red rose you took from my hand—
O the light was sweet that summer day—
One red rose from her queenly band,
That was far too sweet to pine away.
'Come I will pluck thee,' I said to the rose—
O the light was sweet that summer day—
'And give thee to one who is pure, God knows,
To wear thee though blooming from May to May.'
I plucked the rose with a leaf or two—
O the light was sweet that summer day—
Rose bloom on the breast of one who is true,
Whatever her sisters may hint or say.
Then the rose made answer, 'What if I fade'—
O the light was sweet that summer day—
'Fade on the breast on which I am laid,
And my beams grow dark in their sad decay.'
Then I thus made answer and said to the rose—
O the light was sweet that summer day—
'Die, and the breath of your incense grows
A memory sweet, that shall last for aye.'