Too soon so fair, fair lilies

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.