It was nothing but a rose I gave her,
Nothing but a rose.
Any wind might rob it of half its savor,
Any wind that blows.

When she took it from my trembling fingers
With a hand as chill,
Ah, the slying 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!