My Life is like the summer rose 
That opens to the morning sky, 
But, e'er the shades of evening close, 
Is scattered on the ground to die; 

Yet on the rose's humble head 
The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
As if they wept the waste to see, 
But none shall weep a tear for me.
 
My life is like the autumn leaf 
That trembles in the moons pale ray; 
Its hold is frail, its date is brief, 
Tis restless soon to pass away; 

Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade 
The parent tree will mourn its shade 
The winds bewail the leafless tree, 
But none shall weep a tear for me.