O rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,
But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubblewheat,–
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee. – Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Ah tell me not that memory sheds gladness over the past; what is recalled by faded flowers save that they did not last? – Letitia Elizabeth Landon

I wept as I remembered how often you and I had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. – Callimachus