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Augusta Davies Webster - Too soon so fair, fair lilies
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TOO soon so fair, fair lilies;
To bloom is then to wane;
    The folded bud has still
    To-morrow at its will;
Blown flowers can never blow again.

    Too soon so bright, bright noontide;
The sun that now is high
    Will henceforth only sink
    Towards the western brink;
Day that`s at prime begins to die.

    Too soon so rich, ripe summer,
For autumn tracks thee fast;
    Lo, death-marks on the leaf!
    Sweet summer, and my grief;
For summer come is summer past.

    Too soon, too soon, lost summer;
Some hours and thou art o`er.
    Ah! death is part of birth:
    Summer leaves not the earth,
But last year`s summer lives no more.
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