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?