Augusta Davies Webster: Все стихи поэта

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DAY is dead, and let us sleep,

Sleep a while or sleep for aye,

'Twere the best if we unknew

While to-morrow dawned and grew;

It may bring us time to weep:

We were glad to-day.

Joy a little while is won,

Joy is ending while begun;

Poor little diary, with its simple thoughts,

its good resolves, its "Studied French an hour,"

"Read Modern History," "Trimmed up my grey hat,"

"Darned stockings," "Tatted," "Practised my new song,"

"Went to the daily service," "Took Bess soup,"

"Went out to tea." Poor simple diary!

and did I write it? Was I this good girl,

this budding colourless young rose of home?