Thomas Moore

From “Irish Melodies”. 53. ’Tis the Last Rose of Summer

’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 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?