ON A FADED VIOLET.

The odour from the flower is gone

Which like thy kisses breathed on me;

The colour 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.