The Last Rose of Summer by Thomas Moore

This morning I walked our garden,
gathering the last of our harvest before the frost.
That's when I saw her . . . the last rose of summer.
These words with the traditional melody filled my mind
with longing and with song.
'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
or 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 loves shining circle
the gems drop away,
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh,who would inhabit
this bleak world so alone.

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left a bloomin alone.
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