For love reflects the thing beloved.
What the sunshine is to the flower, the Lord Jesus Christ is to my soul.
O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall.
And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.