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.