Lastroseofsummer moore dii
Tis the last rose of summer, by Sir Thomas More. Tis the last rose of summer, Love 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 low 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 sentless 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. O who would inhabit this bleak world alone?
