Stanzas

Stanzas

My life is like the summer rose,

That opens to the morning sky,

But ere the shades of evening close,

Is scatter'd on the ground to die,

Yet on the rose's humble bed,
The sweetest dew 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 e'er that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree shall mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe 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 mourns the sea,
But none, alas! shall mourn for me.

R.H. Wilde

1:15, p. 60

1827.06.22