A Sign

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 fiying torch 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!

-H.P.Spofford