Dearest, forgive that with my clumsy touch <br />I broke and bruised your rose. <br />I hardly could suppose <br />It were a thing so fragile that my clutch <br />Could kill it, thus. <br /> <br />It stood so proudly up upon its stem, <br />I knew no thought of fear, <br />And coming very near <br />Fell, overbalanced, to your garment's hem, <br />Tearing it down. <br /> <br />Now, stooping, I upgather, one by one, <br />The crimson petals, all <br />Outspread about my fall. <br />They hold their fragrance still, a blood-red cone <br />Of memory. <br /> <br />And with my words I carve a little jar <br />To keep their scented dust, <br />Which, opening, you must <br />Breathe to your soul, and, breathing, know me far <br />More grieved than you.<br /><br />Amy Lowell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stupidity-17/
