#augusta webster

[violettesiren]

Ring then, ring loudly, merry midnight bells, Peal the new lord of days blithe welcoming,— What though your sweet‐scaled tones be also knells,

Be knells the while for the old fallen king Resting his dying head upon the snow? Ring out the old year, for the new year ring.

Hark! hark! the music of the merry chime! The King is dead! God’s blessing on the King! Welcome with gladness this new King of Time.

Oh merry midnight bells, ring blithely, ring, Wake with your breathless peal the startled night, High in your belfry in mad frolic swing.

Laugh out again, sweet music and delight, In happy homes a moment hushed to hear The midnight strokes boom out the old year’s flight.

See, he is gone for ever, the old year, Why should we vex our hearts with sad farewells? Let the dead sleep, bare not his shrouded bier,

Ring on, ring yet more gladly, merry bells, Peal the new lord of days glad welcoming— What though your happy chimes be also knells?

The Old Year Out And The New Year In by Augusta Webster

[violettesiren]

The violet in the wood, that’s sweet to-day, Is longer sweet than roses of red June; Set me sweet violets along my way, And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon. Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two? Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through? Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose? Why dies one sweetness when another blows?

The Violet and the Rose by Augusta Webster

[violettesiren]

A flower was growing alone, Then alone and for ever alone: Some one came by, Saw the flower how fair it had grown, Chose it, plucked it to die.

And what is a flower alone, Then alone and for ever alone, Come no one by? Why should a flower be fair for its own? Choose it, pluck it to die.

The Flower By The Path by Augusta Webster

[violettesiren]

Young May sat fainting and chill, And neither could live nor die; She looked and hated the sky, Yet knew not what was her ill. Ah well-a-day! For the lonely May.

She tired of weeping, and slept; Who woke her up but the Sun? And joy and love had begun To teach her why she had wept Oh bright new day For the startled May!

Young May Sat Fainting and Chill by Augusta Webster

[violettesiren]

Tell me not of morrows, sweet; All to-day is fair, and ours, Thine and mine; Mar not Now with needing more. Neither speak of yesterdays; Lose not Now with backward gaze, Lingering on what went before. Watch for all to-day's new flowers, Mine and thine, Else to-day were incomplete. Nay, but speak of morrows, sweet; Lest to-day seem loss of ours, Thine and mine, Leaving nought to come again. Nay, but speak of yesterdays, Lest, forgetting trodden ways, We have trodden them in vain. Make one love-time of all hours, Mine and thine, Else to-day were incomplete.

Song by Augusta Webster

[violettesiren]

The green and happy world is hidden away; Cold, cold, the ghostly snows lie on its breast; The white miles reach the shadows wan and grey 'Neath wan grey skies unchanged from east to west.

Sleep on beneath the snows, chilled, barren, earth; There are no blossoms for thy winter dearth: Break not nor melt, fall still from heaven, wan snows; Hide the spoiled earth, and numb her to repose.

The Snows by Augusta Webster

[violettesiren]

I set a lily long ago; I watched it whiten in the sun; I loved it well, I had but one. Then summer-time was done, The wind came and the rain, My lily bent, lay low. Only the night-time sees my pain— Alas, my lily long ago!

I had a rose-tree born in May; I watched it burgeon and grow red, I breathed the perfume that it shed. Then summer-time had sped, The frost came with its sleep My rose-tree died away. Only the silence hears me weep— Alas, lost rose-tree! lost, lost May!

The garden’s lily blows once more; The buried rose will wake and climb; There is no thought of rain and rime After, next summer-time. But the heart’s blooms are weak; Once dead for ever o’er. Not night, not silence knows me seek My joy that waned and blooms no more.

Once by Augusta Webster

[violettesiren]

Blithe summer blossom, born too late, Wilt make my desert garden fair? Lo Winter’s hand is on the gate, His breath is in the curdling air.

Still yesterweek, but yesterweek, Thou hadst, unfolding in warm light, Spread ripening to the crimson streak And seed to make the next year bright.

But now there fall the latter rains, The chills that brown the ferns are come; Southward, above the shivering plains, The eddying swallows hasten home.

Oh flower too frail, too late of birth, There is no sun for such as thou: Droop down upon the barren earth; What boots it to have blossomed now?

Belated by Augusta Webster