IT was nothing but a rose I gave her, -- Nothing but a rose Any wind might rob of half its savor, Any wind that blows. When she took it from my trembling fingers With a hand as chill, -- Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers, Stays, and thrills them still! Withered, faded, pressed between the pages, Crumpled fold on fold, -- Once it lay upon her breast, and ages Cannot make it old! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ALIEN WOMEN; SONGKHLA, THAILAND by KAREN SWENSON SPRING'S NEBRASKA by KAREN SWENSON PROTESTS (AFTER A PAINTING BY HUGO BALLIN) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER IN A LECTURE-ROOM by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH THE BRIDGE: 7. THE TUNNEL by HAROLD HART CRANE THE BALLAD OF CHRISTMAS by WALTER JOHN DE LA MARE LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT by GEORGE MEREDITH |