The odour from the flower is gone 
    Which like thy kisses breathed on me;
The colour 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 its cold, 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.


 Anthony Cohen