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, Or give sigh for sigh. Ill 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 oer 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 alone? - Irish poet Thomas Moore
Posted on: Mon, 21 Oct 2013 07:54:52 +0000
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