FROM THE POETRY SHELF1914

Stupidity

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.

Collection and author context

The linked Project Gutenberg text places this poem in Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914). Lowell’s work as a poet, critic, and editor—and her advocacy for Imagism—provides broader context for reading the collection.

Source text: Sword Blades and Poppy Seed (1914) · Project Gutenberg. Further reading: all poems by Amy Lowell · Academy of American Poets: Amy Lowell · Poetry Foundation: Amy Lowell.

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