by Amy Lowell

Amy Lowell

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.