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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.



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.


On a Faded Violet, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || Song, On a Faded Violet, The Literary Pocket-Book, 1821, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. On a Dead Violet. To Shelley, Stacey MS. On a Dead Violet, Rossetti. Published by Hunt, in The Literary Pocket-Book, 1821. The text follows Hunt's version, which is also that of Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

i. 1 odor || color, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.

2 kisses breathed || sweet eyes smiled, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.

3 color || odor, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.

4 glowed || breathed, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.

ii. 1 shrivelled || withered, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.

4 cold and silent || its cold, silent, Stacey MS.



MANY a green isle needs must be
In the deep, wide sea of misery,
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on
Day and night, and night and day,
Drifting on his dreary way,

With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel's track;
Whilst above, the sunless sky,
Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
And behind, the tempest fleet
Hurries on with lightning feet,
Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
Till the ship has almost drank
Death from the o'er-brimming deep,
And sinks down, down-like that sleep
When the dreamer seems to be
Weltering through eternity;
And the dim low line before
Of a dark and distant shore
Still recedes, as ever still,
Longing with divided will
But no power to seek or shun,
He is ever drifted on

O'er the unreposing wave

To the haven of the grave.
What, if there no friends will greet?

Lines Written Among the Euganean Hills. Published with Rosalind and Helen, 1819. Composed at Este, October, 1818.

What, if there no heart will meet
His with love's impatient beat?
Wander wheresoe'er he may,
Can he dream before that day
To find refuge from distress
In friendship's smile, in love's caress?
Then 'twill wreak him little woe
Whether such there be or no.
Senseless is the breast, and cold,
Which relenting love would fold;
Bloodless are the veins, and chill,
Which the pulse of pain did fill ;
Every little living nerve
That from bitter words did swerve
Round the tortured lips and brow,
Are like sapless leaflets now
Frozen upon December's bough.

On the beach of a northern sea
Which tempests shake eternally,
As once the wretch there lay to sleep,
Lies a solitary heap,

One white skull and seven dry bones,
On the margin of the stones,
Where a few gray rushes stand,
Boundaries of the sea and land:
Nor is heard one voice of wail
But the sea-mews, as they sail
O'er the billows of the gale;
Or the whirlwind up and down
Howling, like a slaughtered town
When a king in glory rides

43 Is bike a sapless leaflet now, Rossetti.

Through the pomp of fratricides.
Those unburied bones around
There is many a mournful sound;
There is no lament for him,
Like a sunless vapor, dim,

Who once clothed with life and thought
What now moves nor murmurs not.

Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide Agony. To such a one this morn was led My bark, by soft winds piloted. Mid the mountains Euganean I stood listening to the pean With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical; Gathering round with wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie In the unfathomable sky, So their plumes of purple grain, Starred with drops of golden rain, Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale Through the broken mist they sail, And the vapors cloven and gleaming Follow down the dark steep streaming, Till all is bright, and clear, and still, Round the solitary hill.

Beneath is spread like a green sea
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair.
Underneath day's azure eyes,
Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,
A peopled labyrinth of walls,
Amphitrite's destined halls,
Which her hoary sire now paves
With his blue and beaming waves.
Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined
On the level quivering line
Of the waters crystalline;
And before that chasm of light,
As within a furnace bright,
Column, tower, and dome and spire,
Shine like obelisks of fire,
Pointing with inconstant motion
From the altar of dark ocean
To the sapphire-tinted skies;
As the flames of sacrifice
From the marble shrines did rise
As to pierce the dome of gold
Where Apollo spoke of old.

Sun-girt City! thou hast been
Ocean's child, and then his queen;
Now is come a darker day,

And thou soon must be his prey,
If the power that raised thee here
Hallow so thy watery bier.

115 Sea-girt, Palgrave conj.

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