To A Lady With A Withered Violet.
Though fate upon this faded flower
His withering hand has laid,
Its odour'd breath defies his power,
Its sweets are undecayed.
And thus, although thy warbled strains
No longer wildly thrill,
The memory of the song remains,
Its soul is with me still.
To A Lady With A Withered Violet. by Joseph Rodman Drake