Richard Henry Wilde
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!
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Comments about this poem (Stanzas by Richard Henry Wilde )
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Still I Rise
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