On a dead violet | Percy Bysshe Shelley

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.