Augusta Davies Webster (30 January 1837 - 5 September 1894 / Dorset, England)

SOME quick kind tears, some easy sorrow,
And then 'tis past.
'Twas sad; yet sadness has its morrow;
Blue skies succeed skies overcast:
Why should grief last?

Something that's passing, something dying.
Well, weep one's fill,
Spend grief's sweet courtesy, go sighing;
But violets break from snow-time's chill:
Who can mourn still?

Aye, let me pass. No life will miss me
Save few first days.
A shudder, stooping down to kiss me,
A little love and tardy praise;
Then the old ways.