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On A Dead Violet

 The odor from the flower is gone
Which like thy kisses breathed on me;
The color 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 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.

by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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