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.