On a Dead Violet

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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.