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Augusta Davies Webster - Tis Hard
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`Tis hard that the full summer of our round 
Is but the turn where winter`s sign-post`s writ; 
That to have reached the best is leaving it; 
That final loss bears date from having found. 
So some proud vessel in a narrow sound 
Sails at high water with the fair wind fit, 
And lo! the ebb along the sandy spit, 
Lower and lower till she jars, aground. 

`Tis hard. We are young still but more content; 
`Tis our ripe flush, the heyday of our prime; 
We learn full breath, how rich of the air we are! 
But suddenly we note a touch of time, 
A little fleck that scarcely seems to mar; 
And we know then that some time since youth went.
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