by: Harriet Prescott Spofford
MORE POEMS BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD
- T 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 upon fold,--
- Once it lay upon her breast, and ages
- Cannot make it old!