My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But, ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die.
Yet on that rose’s humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept such waste to see;
But none shall _weep a tear_ for me.
My life is like the _autumn_ leaf
That trembles in the moon’s pale ray,
Its hold is frail, its date is brief,
Restless, and soon to pass away.
Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree shall mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall _breath a sigh_ for me.
My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tempe’s desert strand,
Soon as the rising tide shall beat
All trace will vanish from the sand.
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea;
But none, alas! shall _mourn_ for me.