The colour from the flower is gone,
Which like thy sweet eyes smiled on me;
The odour from the flower is flown,
Which breathed of thee and only thee!
A withered, 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.