English poem
Stanzas [1]
by F. V. N. Painter (1852–1931)
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!
My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa'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 moans the sea-- But none, alas! shall mourn for me!