The Last of Summer


Published by Chas Magnus, 12 Frankfort St N Y.

The Last 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,
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 could inhabit
This bleak world alone.

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