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.