THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

I sang this song when I studied voice in high school. I thought it a bit sentimental then, and find it almost unbearable now, even though its author, Irish poet Thomas Moore was a friend of Shelley's and Byron;s,  and thus has good Romantic credentials. The thought of the group Celtic Woman singing it is enough to make me imagine slogging through treacle. Actually, they are the perfect vehicle for it. But I digress. The rose I prefer is the Rose of Sharon. Here's Moore's poem, followed by the concluding lines of mine. You'll have to go to Black Shawl to read all of it.

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming all 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 withered
And fond ones are flown
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

ROSE OF SHARON (conclusion) from BLACK SHAWL (LSU PRESS
Who will save me, I wonder,

as I pleat these white tissue

roses I gather for garlands

and bridal bouquets. (Now the nick

of a hat pin! Some blood

from my finger squeezed into each

center.) Whoever he is,

when he comes with his silver

axe swinging, his saw teeth

that grin through the laurel

hells, I will be Rose

Among Wild Roses. I will be Rose

Willing. I will be ready.

Now, that's the kind of Rose I like!