On A Faded Violet

The colour from the flower is gone,

Which like thy sweet eves smiled on me

The odour from the flower is flow,

Which breath 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