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...JOE HILL LISTENS TO THE PRAYING by KENNETH PATCHEN OF JACOPO DEL SELLAIO by EZRA POUND TO MARK ANTHONY IN HEAVEN by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS ON WORDSWORTH by DAVID HARTLEY COLERIDGE THE PESSIMIST by BENJAMIN FRANKLIN KING THE THREE WARNINGS by HESTER LYNCH (SALUSBURY) PIOZZI |