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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