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...NEW FRIENDS AND OLD FRIENDS by JOSEPH PARRY SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER LOFT AT NIGHT by VIRGINIA ABEL MARCH'S DAUGHTER by MAUDE PHILIPS BOARD CLIFF DWELLER LYRICS: THE HALL BOYS by BERTON BRALEY |