The odor from the flower is gone
Which like thy kisses breathed on me;
The color 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. 

Added: on June 2nd, 2005 at 9:45 AM | Viewed: 876 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Poem: On A Dead Violet

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