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!
(Harriet Prescott Spofford)
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