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.

© Augusta Davies Webster