posted on：2021 years
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duration：06:57
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The colour from the flower is gone, Which like thy sweet eves smiled on me The odour from the flower is flow, Which breath of thee and only thee A withered, 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
