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