The last rose of winter has ceased for to bloom,
Its exit it made amidst tempest and gloom,
For tossed by the wild winds and buried with snow,
The last rose of winter lies withered and low.
It grew out of season, it bloomed out time,
And so fell a prey to our changeable clime,
Then flung like a dart, from a loosely strung bow,
The last rose of winter lies withered and low.
It felt not the glow of a warm summer sun,
In long nights and darkness, its course it was run,
And the cold winds around it, are sighing with woe,
The last rose of winter lies withered and low.
Its freshness and beauty, its life could not save,
Yet stainless and pure, it was rushed to the grave,
Its fragrance dispersed by the cold winds that blow,
The last rose of winter lies withered and low.
‘Tis sad for to see all the white petals tossed,
‘Tis sad for to think of a sweet life that’s lost,
Yet all things that live, like the roses must go,
And the last rose of winter lies withered and low.
George Barnett 