LAY OF THE BOSK. 261 



For life, so lonely vain, 



For death, which breaks the chain 

 For this sense of present sweetness, 

 And this yearning to completeness !" 



ON A FADED VIOLET. 



BY SHELLEY. 



THE odor from the flower is gone 



Which, like thy kisses, breathed on me ; 



The color from the flower is flown, 

 Which glow'd of thee, and only thee 1 



A shrivel'd, lifeless, vacant form, 

 It lies on my abandon'd 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. 



