LAY OP 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. 
