Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

’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 wither’d,

      And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

      This bleak world alone?