In Victorian poet Robert Browning's "Women and Roses," a dazzled speaker recounts a strange dream. He sees before him a "red-rose tree"—a bush of red roses—around which all the beautiful women who ever were, are, or will be dance. He reaches out to every generation, past, present, and future, begging for an embrace or just a moment's contact—but the ladies, unperturbed, dance on and on, just out of his reach. This strange, dreamy poem expresses a deep longing for female beauty, but also for the ability to capture female beauty: this is a poem about both sexual and creative frustration. Browning wrote this poem as part of a New Year's poem-a-day challenge to himself in early 1852 and collected it in his important 1855 book Men and Women.
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I
1I dream of a red-rose tree.
2And which of its roses three
3Is the dearest rose to me?
II
4Round and round, like a dance of snow
5In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go
6Floating the women faded for ages,
7Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.
8Then follow women fresh and gay,
9Living and loving and loved to-day.
10Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,
11Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,
12They circle their rose on my rose tree.
III
13Dear rose, thy term is reached,
14Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:
15Bees pass it unimpeached.
IV
16Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,
17You, great shapes of the antique time!
18How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,
19Break my heart at your feet to please you?
20Oh, to possess and be possessed!
21Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast!
22Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,
23Drink but once and die!—In vain, the same fashion,
24They circle their rose on my rose tree.
V
25Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed,
26Thy cup is ruby-rimmed,
27Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.
VI
28Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth
29The bee sucked in by the hyacinth,
30So I will bury me while burning,
31Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,
32Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!
33Fold me fast where the cincture slips,
34Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,
35Girdle me for once! But no—the old measure,
36They circle their rose on my rose tree.
VII
37Dear rose without a thorn,
38Thy bud's the babe unborn:
39First streak of a new morn.
VIII
40Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!
41What is far conquers what is near.
42Roses will bloom nor want beholders,
43Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders.
44What shall arrive with the cycle's change?
45A novel grace and a beauty strange.
46I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her,
47Shaped her to his mind!—Alas! in like manner
48They circle their rose on my rose tree.
I
1I dream of a red-rose tree.
2And which of its roses three
3Is the dearest rose to me?
II
4Round and round, like a dance of snow
5In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go
6Floating the women faded for ages,
7Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.
8Then follow women fresh and gay,
9Living and loving and loved to-day.
10Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,
11Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,
12They circle their rose on my rose tree.
III
13Dear rose, thy term is reached,
14Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:
15Bees pass it unimpeached.
IV
16Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,
17You, great shapes of the antique time!
18How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,
19Break my heart at your feet to please you?
20Oh, to possess and be possessed!
21Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast!
22Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,
23Drink but once and die!—In vain, the same fashion,
24They circle their rose on my rose tree.
V
25Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed,
26Thy cup is ruby-rimmed,
27Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.
VI
28Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth
29The bee sucked in by the hyacinth,
30So I will bury me while burning,
31Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,
32Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!
33Fold me fast where the cincture slips,
34Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,
35Girdle me for once! But no—the old measure,
36They circle their rose on my rose tree.
VII
37Dear rose without a thorn,
38Thy bud's the babe unborn:
39First streak of a new morn.
VIII
40Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!
41What is far conquers what is near.
42Roses will bloom nor want beholders,
43Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders.
44What shall arrive with the cycle's change?
45A novel grace and a beauty strange.
46I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her,
47Shaped her to his mind!—Alas! in like manner
48They circle their rose on my rose tree.
I
I dream of a red-rose tree.
And which of its roses three
Is the dearest rose to me?
II
Round and round, like a dance of snow
In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go
Floating the women faded for ages,
Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.
Then follow women fresh and gay,
Living and loving and loved to-day.
Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
Dear rose, thy term is reached,
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached:
Bees pass it unimpeached.
Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb,
You, great shapes of the antique time!
How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,
Break my heart at your feet to please you?
Oh, to possess and be possessed!
Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast!
Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,
Drink but once and die!—In vain, the same fashion,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
Dear rose, thy joy's undimmed,
Thy cup is ruby-rimmed,
Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed.
Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth
The bee sucked in by the hyacinth,
So I will bury me while burning,
Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,
Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips!
Fold me fast where the cincture slips,
Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,
Girdle me for once! But no—the old measure,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
VII
Dear rose without a thorn,
Thy bud's the babe unborn:
First streak of a new morn.
VIII
Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear!
What is far conquers what is near.
Roses will bloom nor want beholders,
Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders.
What shall arrive with the cycle's change?
A novel grace and a beauty strange.
I will make an Eve, be the artist that began her,
Shaped her to his mind!—Alas! in like manner
They circle their rose on my rose tree.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
Browning's Legacy — Read an article commemorating Browning's 200th birthday.
More on Browning — Find a wealth of resources on Browning at the Victorian Web.
A Brief Biography — Learn more about Browning's life and work via the Poetry Foundation.
Portraits of Browning — Take a look at the National Portrait Gallery's collection of Browning portraiture—including a touching bronze cast of his hand holding his wife Elizabeth's.
Men and Women — Take a peek at an early edition of Men and Women, the important collection in which this poem first appeared.