My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But, e’er the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die;
Yet on the rose’s humble head
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if they wept the waste to see,
But none shall weep a tear for me,
But none shall weep a tear for me,
But none shall weep, shall weep a tear for me. |
My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moons pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its date is brief,
Tis restless soon to pass away;
Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade
The parent tree will mourn its shade
The winds bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me,
But none shall breathe, shall breath a sigh for me. |
