Too soon so fair, fair Lilies

Too soon so fair, fair lilies;

To bloom is then to wane;

The folded bud has still

Tomorrow 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.