A Rose in Paris

T'is the last rose of summer
left blossoming alone.
All her lovely companions
are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
no rosebud nigh,
to reflect back her blushes,
to give her sigh for sigh ..

...
When the true hearts lie withered
 and fond ones are flown -
Oh, who should inhabit
this bleak world alone?

(Thomas More)



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