Red, red rose, that grows and grows,
Over the weeds and over throws,
Many an ugly flower to bloom,
And true yet the red rose as rare,
No lover has picked her, for to care,
Can't she see her beauty does not last? And soon,
Every flower will shine,
but no one will see the ugly red rose vine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem