'tis the last rose of summer,
left blooming alone;
all her lovely companions are faded and gone;
no flow'r of her kindred,
no rosebud 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 senseless 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?