A Quote by Thomas Moore

T'is the last rose of summer, 
Left blooming alone. — © Thomas  Moore
T'is the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone.
I've lived to bury my desires and see my dreams corrode with rust now all that's left are fruitless fires that burn my empty heart to dust. Struck by the clouds of cruel fate My crown of Summer bloom is sere Alone and sad, I watch and wait And wonder if the end is near. As conquered by the last cold air When Winter whistles in the wind Alone upon a branch that's bare A trembling leaf is left behind.
Oh that it were with me As with the flower; Blooming on its own tree For butterfly and bee Its summer morns: That I might bloom mine hour A rose in spite of thorns. Oh that my work were done As birds' that soar Rejoicing in the sun: That when my time is run And daylight too, I so might rest once more Cool with refreshing dew.
Thy Return is as another Sun to Heaven; a new Rose blooming in the Garden of the Soul.
The rose is a rose, And was always a rose. But the theory now goes That the apple's a rose, And the pear is, and so's The plum, I suppose. The dear only knows What will next prove a rose. You, of course, are a rose - But were always a rose.
The problem with my shoulders was something I inherited from my dad. The left one would pop out and then pop back in - absolute agony - during almost every game last season, so I had surgery to put it right last summer.
Anything that's left that's remotely like wilderness should be left strictly alone. We have no business there any more. It's not going to save you to go in and cut the last old-stand forests.
Once a blooming red rose, full of streaming life in its veins. Now a wilting black petal rupturing with death and pain.
[T]hat old September feeling, left over from school days, of summer passing, vacation nearly done, obligations gathering, books and football in the air ... Another fall, another turned page: there was something of jubilee in that annual autumnal beginning, as if last year's mistakes had been wiped clean by summer.
We can either rip your face up with 'Painkiller,' or we can play this beautiful thing called 'Last Rose of Summer' from 'Sin After Sin.' And people love us for that because they don't really know what to expect.
This is how we know we are in a loving relationship. We are blooming, and the one we love is blooming as well.
I left Google X. All the senior women have left Google X. I was the last to make it - I was, to be fair, the last there. Megan Smith left, Claire Hughes Johnson, vice presidents at Google left.
You will never find Jesus so precious as when the world is one vast howling wilderness. Then he is like a rose blooming in the midst of the desolation, a rock rising above the storm.
God made the rose out of what was left of woman at the creation. The great difference is, we feel the rose's thorns when we gather it; and the other's when we have had it for some time.
But after the time there I'd had it with fashion again, so I left to go to architecture school in a summer course at Harvard, which didn't last very long.
When autumn comes, it doesn't ask. It just walks in, where it left you last. And you never know, when it starts; until there's fog inside the glass around your summer heart.
Love is like the wild rose-briar; Friendship like the holly-tree. The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms, But which will bloom most constantly? The wild rose-briar is sweet in spring ,Its summer blossoms scent the air; Yet wait till winter comes again, And who will call the wild-briar fair? Then, scorn the silly rose-wreath now, And deck thee with holly's sheen, That, when December blights thy brow, He still may leave thy garland green.
This site uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience. More info...
Got it!