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