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| Poems by Women |
A SIGH
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 [1835-1921]
From: Stevenson, Burton Egbert.
The Home Book of Verse.
This poet:
[Author index]
This collection assembled by Jone Johnson Lewis.
Collection © 1999-2002 Jone Johnson Lewis.
Citing poems from these pages:
| Author. "Poem Title." Women's History: Poems by Women. Jone Johnson Lewis, editor. URL: (date of logon) |
