The Last Rose Of Summer
That strain again? It seems to tell
Of something like a joy departed;
I love its mourning accents well,
Like voice of one, ah! broken-hearted.
That note that pensive dies away,
And can each answering thrill awaken,
It sadly, wildly, seems to say,
Thy meek heart mourns its truth forsaken.
Or there was one who never more
Shall meet thee with the looks of gladness,
When all of happier life was o'er,
When first began thy night of sadness.
Sweet mourner, cease that melting strain,
Too well it suits the grave's cold slumbers;
Too well the heart that loved in vain
Breathes, lives, and weeps in those wild numbers.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Last Rose Of Summer by Charles Wolfe )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- THE PRETTY CAMELS IN THE PATOS ORCHARD ا.., MOHAMMAD SKATI
- Dear, sabelo khumalo
- cHoPpIng wIth EaT sTiCKs, sEaN nOrTh
- Happy Birthday Sister, Srivishnu Rentala
- Where The Nation Is Mine!, Mohammed Rakibul Hossain
- If You Do Not Cultivate Your Woman, Ronell Warren Alman
- Sri Lankan Leapord (Kotiya), Dilantha Gunawardana
- Feels Of Love..., John Ugolo Umah
- The Same Old Story, Nassy Fesharaki
- Green, sEaN nOrTh