| 'T is 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 love's shining circles The gems drop away. When true hearts lie wither'd. And fond ones are flown, O, who would inhabit This bleak world alone! Author: Thomas Moore (1779-1858) |
| Page maintained by Rye 2001 Updated 9/03 & reviewed December 2003 |
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| Graphics by Shirley |
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| The Last Rose of Summer |
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