The Messenger

O rose, bright rose with the heart of gold, I’ve watched your beautiful bloom unfold, From an emerald bud on a slender brier To a royal blossom flamed with fire; And of all the flowers that I have seen, O rich, red rose, you are the queen; O wonderful rose, you are the queen.

O glorious rose, your fragrance rare, Is wasted here on the wanton air,— Your brilliant color and perfect form Will fade and wither from sun and storm, And none will know or care I ween The cruel fate of the garden queen; The sad, sad fate of the garden queen.

There’s a nobler end for one so grand, I'll pluck you, rose, with a tender hand; On each bright petal I’ll drop a kiss, Then go to my Love and whisper this: “Of all the fair women that I have seen, O fairest of women, you are the queen— O dearest of women, you are the queen!"

“There’s nothing can measure the depth and reach Of my love for you, in the realms of speech; But its marvelous breadth will all unfold As the days go by, like the rose you hold, Which once was a bud in a nest of green, But now is a radiant floral queen,— A royal, radiant floral queen.”

And rose, dear rose, with the heart of gold; This message so new and yet so old, Requires an answer, old yet new; Perhaps she’ll give it, dear rose, through you. If her red lips lift from your petal’s sheen The kisses they bear, she will be my queen; O sweet, sweet rose, she will be my queen.

And if, when I call at a later hour, Her breast is adorned by your crimson flower; If her eyes are shy, and her fair cheeks glow With your borrowed color, then rose, I’ll know By tokens of favor so plainly seen, That my lady consents to be my queen, Forever and ever to be my queen.