On A Dead Violet
| The odor from the flower is gone Which like thy kisses breathed on me； The color from the flower is flown Which glowed of thee and only thee！ A shrivelled， lifeless， vacant form， It lies on my abandoned breast； And mocks the heart， which yet is warm， With cold and silent rest. I weep——my tears revive it not； I sigh——it breathes no more on me： Its mute and uncomplaining lot Is such as mine should be. |
