The Last Rose of Summer

We have a student intern in our church right now, and she preached recently. One of the comments she made was—how many times do we look back in sorrow at the things we have left undone.

This thought has been kicking around in my head for some time—but not exactly with the emphasis she stated. We all celebrate and recognize the beginnings of important things in our lives—but we don’t always know when we see or do something for the last time.

A couple of years ago, my husband and I needed to get a new washer and dryer. Since we could afford it, we picked out quite good models—and the salesman said: This may be the last washer and dryer you need to buy. I think I was a little startled—was the world of weekly washing coming to an end? Did the salesman know something I did not about my projected life span? I think he was actually touting the longevity of his product, nothing more dire than that.

That expression—the last rose of summer—comes from a poem by Thomas Moore, an Irish poet. Sir John Stevenson set it to music, which you can hear here. The phrase speaks to the bittersweet quality of approaching autumn.

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming all alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them;
'Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

I thought about titling this blog “The Last Robin of Summer” as that conveys the sweet melancholy that accompanies this time of year. The first robin of spring is much heralded, because you know when you see the first one. But the last robin goes unnoticed, as you don’t know it will be the last one you see.

Of course, it’s not really birds I am thinking about, or even roses. It is the last time we do something, or see someone. Maybe it’s my age, but I do find myself thinking, when an acquaintance dies, when was the last time I saw her?

Hmmm—this post is turning far too melancholic. So, let’s go back to the last rose of summer, and savors it beauty and fragrance, however brief.