LAY OF THE EOSE. 
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 ! 
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. 
