On A Dead Violet

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.