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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.