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.

Sword Blades and Poppy Seed
sword blades
   The Captured Goddess
   The Precinct. Rochester
   The Cyclists
   Sunshine through a Cobwebbed Window
   A London Thoroughfare. 2 A.M.
   Astigmatism
   The Coal Picker
   Storm-Racked
   Convalescence
   Patience
   Apology
   A Petition
   A Blockhead
   Stupidity
   Irony
   Happiness
   The Last Quarter of the Moon
   A Tale of Starvation
   The Foreigner
   Absence
   A Gift
   The Bungler
   Fool's Money Bags
   Miscast I
   Miscast II
   Anticipation
   Vintage
   The Tree of Scarlet Berries
   Obligation
   The Taxi
   The Giver of Stars
   The Temple
   Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success
   In Answer to a Request
poppy seed
   The Great Adventure of Max Breuck
   Sancta Maria, Succurre Miseris
   After Hearing a Waltz by Bartok
   Clear, with Light, Variable Winds
   The Basket
   In a Castle
   The Book of Hours of Sister Clotilde
   The Exeter Road
   The Shadow
   The Forsaken
   Late September
   The Pike
   The Blue Scarf
   White and Green
   Aubade
   Music
   A Lady
   In a Garden
   A Tulip Garden