Roses are the protagonists of poems that speak of love and passion but also of purity, sweetness or eternity. A poem about roses can be a perfect dedication if you are looking for words full of meaning.
Because in life there are no realities other than these. A flash of sunshine, the scent of a rose, the sound of a voice and even though they are vain and ephemeral, they are the best in the world, the best in the world for me.
The rose has always been an icon among flowers and has served as inspiration in literature, art and music.
The origin of roses is also surrounded by legends to explain their symbolism of love and passion. In Greek mythology there is a story that explains that the goddess Cybele, aware that Aphrodite's beauty was unrivaled, created this flower so that the goddess of love would have unbeatable competition.
And another beauty story related to Aphrodite is the one that tells that she herself was the one who created a white flower inspired by the beauty that she herself gave off and always wore it adorning her chest. The god Dionysus got too close to Aphrodite and spilled wine on the white petals of the flower creating the brilliant red hue that transcended forever.
Aphrodite is present in all the stories about the possible origin of roses and it is surely for this reason that this flower is related to love, affection and passion. Great poets of all times also adopted this flower to convey love and heartbreak in their texts.
Giving roses is a nice detail, whether it is a bouquet or just a simple and beautiful flower that will stand out imposingly. If, in addition, you want to accompany it with some beautiful poems full of feeling, these poems about roses can touch the soul as much as a rose. The person being honored will receive much more than a flower.
If you like it and dare, you can write your own verses following our advice, copy one of your favourite poems or, why not, buy a book of poems to accompany your red rose.
My tears fall softly like the petals of some magical rose.
And all my pain flows from the open space of firmaments and snows impossible to remember.
I believe that if I were to touch the earth, it would disintegrate.
Yes, everything is so sad and so beautiful, so trembling like in a dream.
What would life be without roses!
A path without rhythm or blood,
an abyss without night or day.
They lend the soul their wings,
for without them the soul would die,
without stars, without faith, without the clear
illusions that the soul wanted.
She sent me only one rose since we met.
She knew how to choose the messenger with great tenderness.
Deep heart, pure, with a few drops of fragrance still moist - The perfect rose.
Thus I learned the language of that little flower that told me.
My fragile petals hold a heart.
This love thus knew how to find its amulet in - The perfect rose.
I wonder why no one ever sent me the rose instead.
Could you please tell me?
I know… my fate is sealed, and I am only ever to receive - The Perfect Rose.
Rose, rough rose, battered and few-petalled, lean flower, thin, leafless.
More precious than a single wet rose on a stem stunted, with little leaf.
You are cast on the sand,
You are lifted up on the crunchy sand that moves in the wind.
Can the rose that is spice drip such acrid fragrance hardened on a leaf?
The rose was not looking for the dawn.
Almost eternal in its bouquet it was looking for something else.
The rose was not looking for science or shadow.
I was looking for something else for the confines of flesh and dream.
The rose was not looking for the rose.
Motionless in the sky, she was looking for something else!
They are two flowers united, they are two roses born.
Perhaps from the same sunset, living, on the same branch,
From the same drop of dew, from the same ray of sun.
United, just like the feathers of the two small wings.
Of a little bird in the sky.
Like a couple of turtledoves, like the tribe of swallows in the afternoon in the loose veil.
United, just like the tears, that descend in pairs so many from the depths of the gaze.
Like the sigh and the disgust, like the curves on the face, like the stars of the sea.
United Oh, who could in an eternal spring live, as this flower lives.
Join the roses of life in the green and flowering branch, in the green branch of love!
I want to dress you in roses and have the great honor of making you a joyous garment with the petals of the flower.
I want to dress you in roses, be your tailor, designer, and exalt your precious image in your intoxicating manner.
I want to dress you in roses and, in your embracing bed, look at you like an excited and greedy admirer.
I want to dress you in roses and undress you with love. I want to feel your rich smell on your beautiful goddess body.
I want to dress you in roses and, on your seductive body, cover your beautiful skin with my fragrance.
The written rose remained in the air.
The morning wrote it, with a faint pulse.
And, putting its cheek to the window of light, it keeps its appointment in the blue.
Almost perfect and without reason it meditates, absorbed in its vain beauty; oblivion does not touch it, the daisy does not destroy it with its pain of love.
To the Moon it only extends its arms of aroma and walks with secret steps of aroma, nothing more, towards its star.
It exists inaccessible to those who sing it, ignorant of all its thorns, while the nightingale dies for it.
Let this rosy rose, drunk with the breeze and drunk with the caress of the sun, rest upon your breast, so that her whole soul may lovingly shed its petals upon the red and virgin flower of your heart.
Let your sister Spring sing a glorious aria praising your fifteen years in bloom, and let the Fairies, in chorus, celebrate the harmonious grace of your gaze of light and brilliance.
Let the Ideal guide you on all your paths, guided in turn by your divine eyes, and may love nestle forever in your soul, so that your life may be as beautiful as the
rosy and perfumed rose that lovingly dies upon the red and virgin flower of your heart.
I raise a rose, and everything lights up as neither the moon nor the sun can, a coiled serpent of burning light or a wind of moving hair.
I raise a rose, and I call out to all the birds that color the sky with their nests and songs, on the ground I strike the order that decides the union of demons and saints.
I raise a rose, a body and a destiny against the cold night that dares, and with rose sap and with my blood I build perenniality in a brief life.
I raise a rose, and I leave, and I abandon everything that hurts me with sorrow and wonder.
I raise a rose, yes, and I hear life in this song of the birds on my shoulders.
Sending you wishes for a wonderful weekend!