OO 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.
