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...THE GENERAL PUBLIC by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET NAMING FOR LOVE by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE MERCY OF LAZARUS by STEPHEN DOBYNS DIVIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT by AMY LOWELL BONNYBELL: THE BUTTERFLY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |