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,
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 senseless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love’s shining circle
Thy gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown.
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore, Irish poet