Here you will find the Poem Joy that's half too keen, and true of poet Augusta Davies Webster
Joy that's half too keen, and true, Makes us tears. Oh! the sweetness of the tears! If such joy at hand appears, Snatch it, give thine all for it; Joy that is so exquisite, Lost, comes not new. One blossom for a hundred years. Grief that's fond and dies not soon Makes delight. Oh! the pain of the delight! If thy grief be love's aright, Tend it close and let it grow: Grief so tender not to know Loses Love's boon. Sweet Philomel sings all the night.
