Читать книгу Selected Poetry and Prose - Percy Bysshe Shelley - Страница 49

I.

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!

II.

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,

It lies on my abandoned breast,

And mocks the heart which yet is warm,

With cold and silent rest.

III.

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.