Poetry Archives

Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch
 I broke and bruised your rose.
 I hardly could suppose
It were a thing so fragile that my clutch
    Could kill it, thus.

It stood so proudly up upon its stem,
 I knew no thought of fear,
 And coming very near
Fell, overbalanced, to your garment’s hem,
    Tearing it down.

Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one,
 The crimson petals, all
 Outspread about my fall.
They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone
    Of memory.

And with my words I carve a little jar
 To keep their scented dust,
 Which, opening, you must
Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far
    More grieved than you.