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The last rose of summer

Thomas Moore, 1805

Tis the last rose of summer        

  Left blooming alone;   

All her lovely companions           

  Are faded and gone;    

No flower of her kindred,

  No rosebud is nigh,      

To reflect back her blushes,        

  To give sigh for sigh.   

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!            

  To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,     

  Go, sleep thou with them.        

Thus kindly I scatter       

  Thy leaves o’er the bed,             

Where thy mates of the garden

  Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,    

  When friendships decay,           

And from Love’s shining circle    

  The gems drop away.

When true hearts lie withered  

  And fond ones are flown,          

Oh! who would inhabit 

  This bleak world alone?