The colour from the flow'r is gone

The colour from the flower is gone,

Which like thy sweet eyes smiled on me

The odour from the flower is flown,

Which breathed 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.