Frances Anne Kemble (1809–1893)

WHAT though the sun must set, and darkness come,

Shall we turn coldly from the blessèd light,

And o’er the heavens call an earlier gloom,

Because the longest day must end in night?

What though the golden summer flies so fast,

Shall we neglect the rosy wreaths she brings,

Because their blooming sweetness may not last,

And winter comes apace with snowy wings?

What though this world be but the journeying land

Where those who love but meet to part again;

Where, as we clasp in welcome friendship’s hand,

That greeting clasp becomes a parting strain:

’Tis better to be blest for one short hour,

Than never know delight of love or joy,

Friendship, or mirth, or happiness, or power,

And all that Time creates, and must destroy.