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My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground—to die! Yet on the rose’s humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the 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 ere 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!