The odor from the flower is gone, which like thy kiss's breath done me. The color from the flower is flown, which glowed of thee and only thee. A shriveled, lifeless, vacant form, it lies on my abandoned breast, and marks the heart which yet is warm, with gold and silent rest. I weep, my tears revive it not. I sigh, it breathes no more on me. It's mute and uncomplaning lot, it's such as mine should be.