Classic Poem

When last the earth was green
Under the summer's sheen,
And shrub and weed were breaking into flower,
One of my lilies sweet
Drooped in the pitiless heat,
And fainted and grew feebler, hour by hour.

Its leaves drooped sadly down,
And withered, dry and brown;
Its stems were shrivelled, even in early June.
Alas, untimely doomed,
With all its buds unbloomed!
" Ah, cruel Death, " I said, " to come so soon! "

Yet of the woes which fate
Holds for us, soon or late,
Bringing to each his load for soul and brain,
Not theirs the dreariest doom
Who die before their bloom,
And lose life's joys, while they escape its pain.

In February's air
One of my rose-trees fair
Pushed its red shoots, as if the spring were here;
Fresh leaves unrolled and grew;
Buds drank the chilly dew,
And dared to dream their blossom-time was near.

But ere the eldest one
Had opened to the sun,
Across the garden fell a bitter frost;
The rose-tree in its pride,
Was stricken that it died,
With all its tender promise blighted, lost.

And when the spring's slow grace
Came back and blessed the place,
The rose no longer sprouted by the gate.
In vain the breeze beguiled;
In vain the sunlight smiled.
" Ah, cruel Love, " I said, " to come so late! "

Alas! in life's long list
Of blessings lost or missed,
Of wrong, and early blight, and slighted trust,
Theirs is the saddest fate
To whom love comes too late,
And showers with useless tears their lifeless dust!