A red, red rose, all wet with dew,
With leaves of green by red shot through,
And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings
Delicious memories of lost things,
A red rose, sweet—yet sad as rue.
'Twas a red rose you gave me—you
Whose gifts so sacred were, and few—
And that is why your lover sings
A red, red rose.
I sing—with lute untuned, untrue,
And worse than other lovers do,
Because perplexing memory stings—
Because from your green grave there springs,
With your spilt life-blood coloured through,
A red, red rose.