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