“ROSE of all Roses, Rose of all the World! The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled Above the tide of hours, trouble the air, And God’s bell buoyed to be the water’s care; While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand. Turn if you may from battles never done, I call, as they go by me one by one, Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace, For him who hears love sing and never cease, Beside her clean-swept hearth, her quiet shade: But gather all for whom no love hath made A woven silence, or but came to cast A song into the air, and singing past To smile on the pale dawn; and gather you Who have sought more than is in rain or dew Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth, Or sighs amid the wandering starry mirth, Or comes in laughter from the sea’s sad lips; And wage God’s battles in the long grey ships. The sad, the lonely, the insatiable, To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell; God’s bell has claimed them by the little cry Of their sad hearts, that may not live nor die. Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing. Beauty grown sad with its eternity Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea. Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, For God has bid them share an equal fate; And when at last defeated in His wars, They have gone down under the same white stars, We shall no longer hear the little cry Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die.The Sweet Far Thing”

“...Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World! You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing. Beauty grown sad with its eternity Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea. Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait, For God has bid them share an equal fate; And when at last defeated in His wars, They have gone down under the same white stars, We shall no longer hear the little cry Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die.”

“THE ROSETOTHE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIMERed Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet-eyed,Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;And thine own sadness, where of stars, grown oldIn dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,Sing in their high and lonely melody.Come near, that no more blinded by man’s fate,I find under the boughs of love and hate,In all poor foolish things that live a day,Eternal beauty wandering on her way.Come near, come near, come near — Ah, leave me stillA little space for the rose-breath to fill!Lest I no more bear common things that crave;The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,The field-mouse running by me in the grass,And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;But seek alone to hear the strange things saidBy God to the bright hearts of those long dead,And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know.Come near; I would, before my time to go,Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.A king is but a foolish labourerWho wastes his blood to be another’s dream.”

“Every rose has its thorn. Just like every night has its dawn. Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song. Every rose has it's thorn.”

“Beauty and love pass, I know... Oh, there's sadness, too. I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses-”

“Sea-feverI must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tideIs a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-roverAnd quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.”